The Cat Among the Pigeons
by Laerthel
Summary: Bertrand L. Carneirus, editor of 'The New York Ghost' receives a mysterious journal, which reveals the craziest sensation he has ever published. Could it all be true? Was Albus Dumbledore the mastermind behind a spy network? Was Sirius Black innocent? Can a werewolf be sentient, a goblin kind and a Death Eater noble? And where was the British Ministry all this time?
1. Prologue: The Journal

**_DISCLAIMER:_**_ Everything in my fanfictions - apart from the original characters and concepts - is owned by the creators of their respective worlds. No one pays me for writing (bugger that)._

_Pl__ans and notes for this__ story h__ave__ been feeding my dr__awers__ since 2009. Time to dust them off._

* * *

**THE CAT AMONG THE PIGEONS**

by Laerthel  
based on the works of J. K. Rowling  
(with a reverent nod to Agatha Christie, the queen of crime stories)

~ § ~

"_But inside your sob-sodden Kleenex  
And your Saturday night panics,  
Under your hair done this way and that way,  
Behind what looked like rebounds  
And the cascade of cries diminuendo,  
You were undeflected.  
You were gold-jacketed, solid silver,  
Nickel-tipped. Trajectory perfect  
As through ether."_

― _Ted Hughes_

~ § ~

**PROLOGUE – The Journal**

_16 March 1998  
New York City, USA_

If you didn't count the fact that it was the end of the world, it was just like any other Monday, really. Too hot for winter, too cold for spring.

The promise of rain hung over the never-sleeping anthill of Manhattan, and the Star-Spangled Banner rattled on the neighbouring building like a windsock. A No-Maj cargo ship had got wrecked in the harbour, and its crew was desperate to save an entire load of what seemed like tea.

Bertrand L. Carneirus had been following the ship's vicissitudes from his office window since 8.54 AM, to be exact, and he was _definitely_ rooting for the sea. At least he would not be the only one to go bankrupt today…

Not that he _wished_ for all that delicious tea to be lost, of course – Bertrand L. Carneirus was a benevolent man. This was merely an observation in statistics: A _Most Likely Turn of Chance._

The antique wall-clock struck ten; and the tall, square-shouldered wizard turned away from the window with a sigh, running ink-smudged fingers through his greying hair. The night shift was over – it was time to engage his daily tasks as Chief Editor of the reputed _New York Ghost_…

No one really knew what the Editor was doing whenever the lights went down in his office, and his writers and lectors and redactors went home to their loved ones. Bertrand L. Carneirus, for his part, did not have any _loved ones:_ he had a newspaper, an age-old name, a (some would say) _ridiculous_ sense of duty, a No-Maj painting of George Washington on the wall, and – most importantly – a _gigantesque_ budget deficit. But the show had to go on; papers had to be written and printed and delivered; and people needed to be _informed,_ even if no one was really buying _The New York Ghost _anymore.

The hidebound, black-and-white paper encompassed the entirety of perceptible universe, as far as Bertrand L. Carneirus was concerned – his father had edited it, and his grandfather, and his grandfather's father before them; it was only natural that _he_ should, too. Even if people did not truly care about _"should"-_s these days…

"So it has come down to this, eh, Georgie?" The editor muttered absent-mindedly under his breath. He folded his notes on _The Siren's Surreptitious Stockings_ with mild disgust before locking it in his drawers with a flick of his wand. "Pulp fiction reviews. I could just as well change my pen-name to Groggy Gerald."

"Interesting," said George Washington's portrait in a sly voice. "I think I'd go for Naughty Neville. Or, _Néville le Néfaste._ Everything sounds better in French."

Carneirus could not decide what was more surprising – the fact that a No-Maj portrait had just spoken to him, or that glancing up, he found that the bewigged figure of George Washington had been replaced by a blonde, cheery-faced painting of a medieval bard. At second glance – the editor realized – it wasn't even _replaced; _the figure of the bard had merely walked over Washington's, claiming all the place within the thin golden frame.

"Mornin', Neville," said the bard leisurely. He took a sip from a neatly painted crystal glass of what looked suspiciously like whiskey (the colours were much brighter than his own). "How are the _Haughty Hags_ today?"

"How did you know…?!" Carneirus choked. "You – are you_ spying_ on me?! Who are you, anyway, and what are you doing here?"

"Oi, _My Beard!"_ The painting gasped in mock surfeit. "Even Poirot went one question at a time, you know. I should probably make you suffer for each and every morsel of information like a Sphinx, but –" here, he took another sip of whiskey, "as you may have noticed, I'm _not_ a Sphinx. I'm Myrddin. As in, _Myr-ddin,_ with a nice rolled _'r'_. And the reason I am trespassing at Uncle George's is that I have something for you. I think they call it A Letter to the Editor."

Carneirus blinked stupidly. "A letter… _from a reader?"_

"More of an aspiring writer," said the painting with a sigh. "My apprentice. Worst luck you can imagine. She is probably going to be murdered in a few days, poor girl. Most of my students were, to be honest… but _her,_ that's one I _do_ regret. She didn't turn Dark, you see – at least, not full-time. A smart one, too. Anyhow, she's got a story for you, which I am to deliver without making fun of your face. I'm pulling a real effort here, not that you'd care, of course... Will you at least _close your mouth,_ my boy…?"

Carneirus complied, with a rush of motion that knocked his teeth awkwardly against each other; and he gave a short, nervous laugh.

"All right, sir, just to be clear – you would have me believe that you are a portrait of Myrddin – _the_ Myrddin, as in Merlin the Wild, the legendary warlock we know from our Chocolate Frog Cards – and that you have a so-called_ apprentice_ who is… _why am I wasting my breath anyway?!"_

"Just the thing I was asking myself," said Myrddin emphatically. "You have quite the reading to do."

With that, the painted figure sank its hand into the pocket of its cloak, and revealed a thick, purple-ish journal, which seemed ostentatious, somehow _inapposite_ on the canvas. Leaning closer, Carneirus thought he could see why – it was as neatly lined, as clear and sharp as a photograph. So clear and sharp in fact, that it seemed almost… _real_.

"Come on, Neville," Said the portrait, handing the picture forward. "Are you a Muggle, or what? Take it!"

"_What…?" _Carneirus barked. "You want me to reach _into_ your portrait? But that is impossible! I, a living person, cannot _reach…"_

"And I, a bulk of brush-strokes cannot – within Gamp's Third Law of Transfiguration – trespass into a Muggle portrait which is not even my own, yet here I am," said Myrddin, visibly bored. "Then again, Gamp was an invalid. Any other questions on magical theory, Neville?"

"My name is Bert," said Carneirus, slightly offended, but he extended his hand all the same. As soon as his fingers touched the canvas, he felt a surge of warmth; and the thick, hardcover journal slid into his palm. Shocked, aghast, he stumbled back; the book slipped from his fingers, and landed unceremoniously on the floor, right in front of his feet.

"_How on Earth…"_

This was inexplicable, impossible – _this_ was unlike any kind of magic he had ever seen. Intriguing. Mysterious. Frightening. Carneirus's heart was beating fast as he lifted the journal from the floor and paged it through with trembling fingers. It was a simple thing of a popular No-Maj brand, filled from the first page to the last in small orderly letter. The editor's eye recognized the type when he saw it – it was the work of a well-travelled hand, prone to saving paper.

Glued to the inside of the front cover, he found a letter folded into four (also written on No-Maj paper, which, coming from an apprentice of Merlin, was _surprising _at the very least). Carneirus detached it and smoothed it out. It read:

.

_**14 March 1998**_

_Dear Mr Carneirus,_

_I am writing to let you know that I thoroughly enjoyed your review on Rita Skeeter's latest bestseller, 'The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore'. I understand that the book is getting popular in the States, and I feel obliged to offer two capital corrections:_

_One: Dumbledore was not killed – he had staged his own death._

_Two: The British Ministry of Magic did not "change policy via democratic transition". The British Ministry of Magic has been overtaken by a psychopath who calls himself the Dark Lord, has two weirdly cut holes as a nose, and harbours a teenage girl obsession over every single person who has ever crossed him in any way. And let's face it: he won. I don't know if you have heard our current Minister for Magic speak through the radio or anything, but next time you do, I advise you weigh the chances of a) him being perpetually on heroin or b) him being under a nice thick Imperius. I'll let you calculate the probability of each._

_You might ask, of course, how do I know anything about this – well, that's what this journal is all about. To be brief: in May 1993, Cornelius Fudge, then Minister for Magic, asked Albus Dumbledore for advice on how to abolish Ministry debts towards Gringotts bank. Dumbledore suggested the reopening of 'The Sequestrum' – a series of ancient vaults which the Goblins have long abandoned due to their extremely dangerous nature. My friend, William Weasley and I were requested for the job as experts, and we have accepted. Unknown to Fudge, I made a further agreement with Dumbledore: essentially, he wanted a spy in the Ministry, and I wanted to get rich._

_I started writing this diary in the winter of 1995, after a long and dangerous mission for the Order. My life had turned upside-down, and I needed to clear my head (that's why women write diaries in the first place, isn't it?). I had no idea what I was doing, or where it was going to take me. It felt like writing a book – I am quite skilled at mind control, and that allows me to recall things a lot clearer than most people can. Writing events down had always felt like living through them again: sometimes thrilling, sometimes funny, sometimes heart-warming…_

…_until everything turned into one perpetual nightmare. Today, Dumbledore is dead; The Dark Lord has won; the Order of the Phoenix is scattered; and I am scribbling this note in a dark cellar, alone with my fancy Death Eater mask._

_In my diary, I have announced the end of the world multiple times – when my wand was broken, when I promised Moaning Myrtle that I'd be her flatmate in the plughole, when Sirius Black asked me to marry him, and so forth – but now it really IS here, and I need to part ways with this diary. To throw the proverbial cat…_

_You know what? I want you to publish this bunch. I want everyone to read it. I want everyone to see it… and most importantly, I want someone suicidal enough to carry on with the things I would still have to do if I wasn't going to be killed._

_The very thought of people plunging into my past – my preconceptions, my sex life, my journeys, the things I've seen – makes my head spin, but I don't think I have a choice. I know the power of spotlight; and this diary might be the only proof, the only living testimony you'll ever hear about Magical Britain today. Which is, to be quite honest, totally fucked._

_Have a good read,_

_Lucy Dawlish_

_P.S.: Sorry about whatever Myrddin might have said/done to you._

_P.S. 2.: We also have this ongoing debate about who is whose apprentice. Choose a side._

_._

Carneirus took a deep, shaky breath. _Lucy Dawlish_ was not the kind of name he had expected to find at the end of such a letter – it sounded too simple. Too _ordinary_…

"Why… why _me?"_ He managed, eyeing the painting on the wall. "If this is all true, then – then this is quite the story… a scandal… a sensation…"

…_a gold-mine…_

Myrddin laughed merrily. "You will find out."

Carneirus wetted his lip. His eyes stopped above an entry from December 1995, which began with the words _Dear_ _Sirius Black._ Again that name, _Sirius Black_…

"Is it – is this real, though?" He said in a throaty voice. "Or fiction? Because if it _is_ real, then…"

_Silence._

"Look – I cannot, in good conscience… hullo? Myrddin…?"

No one answered; and when Carneirus raised his head to reprimand his unwanted visitor, he found himself staring into the grave face of George Washington again, frozen into the speechless eternity of No-Maj portraits.

Journal in hand, the editor sank into his favourite chair, and started reading.

* * *

**TBC 21 May 2019**

**Updates on every 12****th**** and 21****st**


	2. A Rupture In Permanence

**6 November 1995**

I've been brooding over this page for more than an hour in the morning. I was thinking about a very good first line. It's probably been very stupid of me – on a Monday morning, it's hard enough to form _words,_ let alone lines. At the end, I almost felt like I had something, though. It was on the tip of my tongue, I mean, _quill,_ but then I realised I was late, and Griphook was going to yell at me. Now, if someone starts yelling at you in a high-pitched elfish voice on a Monday morning, you'll develop terrorist tendencies within an hour. Trust me.

So that's how I ran, and bumped into Bill's girlfriend in the entrance hall, and covered her new jacket in coffee. _Her_ coffee, to be exact. Hah-hah. I heard her saying _putain de merde_ under her breath – now, my French leaves much to be desired, but I know _that _wasn't your average morning greeting. So at the end, you could say that my Monday morning was really successful– not only did I earn the title of _putain de merde,_ but I also got yelled at by Griphook in the end.

§ - § - §

Where were we...? Oh, I know. First lines. Lines that will get the non-existent reader hooked. I mean, if I'm ever going to read this again, I'll have to be hooked, huh? Let's try again.

_It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of a diary must be in want of a...?_

…see, that's the problem with intertextuality, also known as Trying to Sound Meaningful When You Don't Have a Clue. What the hell must I be _in want of_…?

…or should I turn it all around? _A single woman in possession of * something * must be in want of a diary…?_

§ - § - §

It _is_ true that a diary generally helps. I've written diaries before, especially when I broke up with Myron or Bill – _whenever_ I broke up with Myron or Bill – or when my life suddenly turned upside-down, only to turn back again when I'd already gotten used to walking around on the tip of my head. If that metaphor makes any sense. I'm no good at metaphors. Or writing. Or anything like that.

And that's how I got stuck. You don't know me yet, so I'll tell you one thing:_ I don't like being stuck, _that's why I'm writing this big bunch of nonsense right now. This is one of those times when my head gets full of shit,so it all needs to be shovelled out, leaving stains on the paper.

…metaphor of the year. Worthy of a Golden Quill!

§ - § - §

So – let's do a _recap,_ because that's what we always do at the Business Department of Gringotts. A _recap_ is supposed to summarize things you have been doing nothing about all day, such as, you know, your job. You'd think that working in a bank is somewhat more stressful, and I assure you, it _is,_ but my situation is somewhat complicated. Ever had a fake job before because you were a secret agent? A _double _agent? Ever been stupid enough to write about that in a diary? No? Well, then welcome to the Inspiring and Most Adventurous Life n' Times of Lucy Dawlish!

(That's me. Just so you know).

Anyway, we have already established the following: (1) I work at Gringotts, (2) I am a _putain de merde_ and (3) I like disgusting metaphors. Now that we have the gist, we can move on to less important subjects, such as (4) this diary was a birthday gift from Remus, and (5) it was my birthday on Friday. Also, (5.1) that was the shittiest birthday I've ever had. I mean, if we don't count the one I spent in jail in China. And for the sake of tension, drama and my Golden Quill aspirations, let's say we don't.

§ - § - §

So, Remus remembered my birthday, which is touching. He sent me a note on Friday, and wrote "Fortescue's, 5 PM" on the back of it. That's where and when we met. He bought me a huge chocolate soufflé and gave me this diary, far out of his budget... He really shouldn't have, but this is _Remus_ we're talking about – he likes giving things, and with such enthusiasm that you can't even _think_ about refusing.

This diary has already grown on me anyway. I love that it's all new and smooth and purple and actually made of Muggle paper. A nice little Extension Charm and it will serve me for years. Provided that I'll be writing it for years, of course. Consistency isn't one of my virtues. But in case this actually becomes a thing, and I find it, let's say, a few decades later, I'll try and include some background information here and there, such as –

§ - § - §

Things to know about Remus Lupin

One: He's a friend of mine, and I look up to him. He's one of the cleverest and most literate people I know.

Two: I've considered shagging him, but I guess I like him too much for that.

Three: He makes the best hot chocolate in England, and he always has sweets in his pockets. His daily sugar consumption is _deadly_, but you know what? Not only his teeth are perfectly fine, but he is also thin. I really hate him for it.

Four: He is one of those guys who have _genuinely_ torn and patched jeans and cloaks and stuff. I've talked him into having long hair once, saying that he would look hardcore instead of penniless. (Didn't work).

Five: HEART OF GOLD. Like, really. He is the sweetest person in the entire universe.

Six: He is a werewolf, and he almost killed me this summer. I never told him about it – he'd get really upset, you see.

§ - § - §

…so, I unwrapped this diary, thumbed it through, and while I was thumbing it through, I thanked Remus awkwardly at least four times. I felt special. My friends always give me rare Muggle comics for my birthday, or Firewhiskey, or a new pair of dragonhide gloves, or perhaps some real fine weed – and Merlin knows I _love_ all those things, but with Remus, it's different. Books. Notes. Sweets. And now – a diary. He actually treats me like a normal person. How thoughtful of him.

Well, yeah. _Remus_ is one of those rare kind and empathic people. I often wonder how on Earth can_ he_ be best mates with Sirius fucking Black. I _really_ don't feel like getting into that right now, but I must, because that's where the story goes. See, after we've spent the whole evening together (talking about poetry and the Ministry's new educational directives and illegal Crup-breeding and the best way to brew a Shrinking Solution) Remus asks me, just _asks me out of the blue _if I planned to go _you-know-where_ today…

Okay, so I think we might just need another interruption –

§ - § - §

Things to know about "you-know-where"

One: It's a secret headquarters. Like in crime stories. So exciting.

Two: It belongs to the Order of the Phoenix, which is Dumbledore's underground organisation. (Normally, it fights You-Know-Who, but nowadays it's obliged to fight the Ministry, too. Sigh).

Three: It's got a pretty little Fidelius Charm on it, so I can't tell you where it is or how to get there. I can't even tell you how it's called. What I CAN tell you, on the other hand, is that I like the décor. _Very_ original, but not quite family-friendly.

Four: …no, it's not a brothel.

Five: The members of the Order can go there anytime they want to, and our meetings also happen there. The basic idea is that if one day you're glommed, at least there's a place where you can hide. See, the Ministry doesn't really like Dumbledore and his followers these days.

Six: I don't really go there anymore, because there is a person in there that I can't stand. Namely, Sirius Black. (Yes, he is THAT Sirius Black. But that's another story).

§ - § - §

…so, essentially, Remus asked me a question there that he could have answered himself. Namely, if I planned to go _you-know-where _today, or tomorrow, or anytime in this century. NOPE. I told him so. But then he goes, _"you could at least stop by and say hello. I've been told someone was missing you."_ And I'm like, _"WHAT?"_

No way.

See – last time I saw Sirius Black, he called me a – quotation mark – _fucking slut_ – quotation mark – and slammed the door right into my face. And he refused to talk to me. He also refused to tell me why he would suddenly refuse to talk to me. I have absolutely no clue. I think that's what having a girlfriend might feel like.

I swear, the guy's skull is made of iron, or diamond, or perhaps Hagrid's tea biscuits… he's just SO FUCKING STUBBORN. He also has these mood swings. Pretty scary sometimes – like, Take One: everything is nice and dandy. He smiles so much his cheeks crack up and we get on like a house on fire. And then suddenly BOOM, Take Two: He goes all emo, screams my face off and he looks at me as if he wanted to feed my brains to his Hippogriff. That's how it goes. And you can't, for the love or Merlin, find out what the heck just happened. You go with the flow. You yell back, but you don't stand a chance. He's better at yelling and being scary and offending people anyway. He's an _expert_.

§ - § - §

I've had a phase like that, too, a few years ago. It can escalate to what Muggles call _manic depressive,_ but if you ask me, it's just… it's just like, I don't know, you hang in _space_ and you're perpetually angry with everyone. It's only that sometimes, you forget about it, because it's either anger or nothing, see. And I get that, I really do, and if I was in Sirius's shoes, I'd probably be _manic depressive, _too, but I just can't put up with that. Nobody put up with _me_ in that phase, either. Just Ronan. And Bane. But I'm not going into that now.

§ - § - §

…anyway, that day, I've seen the red flag and left Sirius Black. _Permanently_. But now Remus looks at me and he goes, _"Well, it's not easy for him, you know, being locked up like that. It gets the worst out of him sometimes." _To which I say, _"Okay, but when he's mad like that… he's a lot scarier than…"_ (There, I swallow the word _"you";_ that would be a shocker, because human-Remus doesn't know about wolf-Remus having lashed out at me, and the scars, and all). So I say, lamely, _"…I don't know – I think my Boggart might turn into him screaming like that."_

Remus is my favourite person, really. He didn't get mad, or judgemental, or anything. He just smiled, and said that I should see Sirius, after all. _"He has a bad temper, but he'd never hurt you." _(Faux)._ "I think he really misses you."_ (Double faux). I didn't respond to that, so he went, _"And it's his birthday, too."_

Great. One more reason to remember the guy…

§ - § - §

I told you that this was my shittiest birthday ever, well… I might have been a bit dramatic. Remus made it _a lot_ better – we talked about this and that, as easily as we always do, until Fortescue told us he was closing the shop. We said our good-byes, then he waved and left. All the way home, I was thinking about Sirius Black and how I would murder him if he ever dared to call me a _fucking slut_ once again.

You know those inner conversations with yourself, right? When you imagine someone's gonna say/think/do this and that, and your thoughts escalate, and things suddenly seem a lot worse than they really are. I do that a lot – I create alternate universes this way, and I sometimes forget that they only exist in my head. Then I take it all out on people.

Maybe that's why Sirius called me a _fucking slut, _after all. He doesn't really have any reason to miss me. Remus is always too nice with people, that's why he assumes that others are, too. No. _He _definitely can't be missing me – after all, I'm not missing him, either, am I? Asshole.

§ - § - §

Where were we again? Oh yeah, shitty day. Guess what: I get home, emotionally devastated by the things Imaginary Sirius Black said to me – and my landlord is waiting for me in front of the flat. Turns out his son's house burned down, and he needs the place. _Right now. _I have forty-eight hours to move out. The perks of renting off-paper. (Happy fucking birthday, Lucy!)

I got so freaking pissed that I packed my stuff the next morning and moved into the Leaky Cauldron, or else I'd have hexed my landlord. I can't hex him, he's a Muggle – the whole Ministry would get involved, and stuff. I'll have to look around for another place to live, though, because there's no way in hell I'm gonna continue stumping up eight Galleons a day. This is my first decent job in _years,_ and I need the money I'm earning.

* * *

**10 November 1995**

Dear Diary,

I might just sell you for a few Sickles by the end of the year. The average rent for a London flat in wizarding circles is 80 bloody Galleons a month. I'll spell it out for you: E-I-G-H-T-Y. Once again, it took me a huge effort not to start hexing the shit outta people when they gave me prices like that. It goes as far as 150.

Next place I tried was Muggle London – no luck there, either. To be clear, I have quite the salary at Gringotts, but if I continue throwing my gold out of the window, I'll never manage. I don't want to depend on the goodwill of someone else. I want a place of my own – a place I can rent to other people when I'm not in Britain, so POOF, I won't have to go on scavenging Knuts in my purse at the end of the month. I could try outside the city, of course, but I'm complete shite at Apparating, and I don't want anyone to notice it. People would ask themselves all kinds of unnecessary questions – such as, _how the hell did she get her exam papers if she can't properly Apparate?_

§ - § - §

I made a decision: in protestation against the crazy lodging prices in London, I'm going to spend the next months in a tent. Then, once I have the coin for it, I'll buy a flat. There you go. Now, if you think I'll run home to Mummy in a few days because I caught a cold, you're mistaken. I have nowhere to go, and I know how to survive in the wild (or in a park, for that matter). Also, it might have escaped your attention, but I'm a witch.

I'm also kind of stubborn, I guess.

§ - § - §

By the by, I've had the strangest impression today. I was having my usual Friday after-hours-session with Minister Fudge, and I think someone was following me. Maybe even watching us…

…Merlin_,_ that sounded _apocalyptically_ terrible. Please believe me, it wasn't about me getting under the table or anything. I was just doing my job as a double agent – namely, leaking information about Dumbledore to Fudge. And tomorrow, I'm going to leak information about Fudge to Dumbledore. There is, however, one capital difference in my two ways of leaking information. Namely: when it's about Dumbledore, _he_ tells me what to say. When it's about Fudge, though, I leak _everything_ – every blink of his eye, every stupid little thing he says.

I wonder if Fudge will ever find out that I'm letting him on.

§ - § - §

Anyway, I've been having this mild impression of being followed for some time now. It's very subtle, and I think if it wasn't for Ronan and his teachings, I wouldn't feel anything. Whoever does it is an expert. I don't know what to do. I don't really want to tell Dumbledore, he'd go all mother hen over me.

Maybe he'd lock me up with Sirius. _Merlin_. I'm _definitely_ not telling him anything.

* * *

**12 November 1995**

I'm so bloody confused. And perturbed. And overwhelmed. And… jeez. Okay. So first things first: I have set up my tent now, which is definitely a plus. Hyde park, small cliff, near a lake. I drew some protective enchantments around it. It's warm inside, the mattress is okay, my belongings are safe. (Most of my belongings would fit in a suitcase without an Extension Charm, anyway). I swear, I have no idea why I haven't thought about living in a tent before. The only setback is that I have not much to do at weekends. But that's nothing compared to the MAJOR setback Dumbledore has now put in front of me. I'll get to it later…

§ - § - §

The Order had a big meeting yesterday, which meant that I had to go _"you-know-where"_ and meet Sirius Black. As a fully functioning, reasonable adult, I have _of course_ done my best to be late from the meeting and slide quietly to the shadows as soon as I entered the room…

_Ha!_ That's what I imagined. Of course the bloody chairs were placed in a wide circle, and OF COURSE the only empty chair was facing no one else than Sirius Black. I mean, why am I even surprised?!

It was a drama in the making. _Enter Lucy_, with as much dignity as she can muster. She _Waits Respectfully Outside the Circle_ until Dumbledore finishes his sentence, then _Smoothly Apologizes for Being Late._ Dumbledore _Accepts Graciously_ and _Shows Her to the Remaining Chair,_ on which she _Settles Elegantly_ and _Looks Right Through Sirius Black_ who _Looks Right Through Her_ as well…

I really hate sitting in circles – like, where should I look? At aforementioned Sirius Black, who is Definitely Not Looking At Me But It Still Feels Like He's Staring…? At Severus Snape a few chairs away, making the exact same face as the stuffed house-elf head that hangs on the wall above him…? Or perhaps my feet? But that would have been just _meek,_ eh? Not my kind of thing.

I settled for looking (mostly) at Remus. He glanced up every now and then and smiled at me; and when we all took a break from the meeting and McGonagall's chair emptied beside me, he occupied it and we went on talking about Shrinking Solutions as if we'd never stopped. Dung dropped by, too. He conjured a bottle of gin out of his bag, and we tasted it. See, I went on a long mission earlier this year with Remus and Dung, and they've sort of grown on me. And Sirius, too, but _he_ just wouldn't come over.

§ - § - §

The rest of the meeting was all about Hagrid. Dumbledore had sent him to Minsk (quite the end of the world, mind you) to try and negotiate with Giants. The thing is, You-Know-Who teamed up with them in the First Wizarding War – he had promised them stuff and led them on. Most of the giants are still convinced to this day that the only reason You-Know-Who didn't keep his promises was his downfall. It never clicked into their daft brains that He was never going to help them in the first place… Anyway, Dumbledore had sent Hagrid as his ambassador, since he's a Half-Giant and all. Long story short, the Death Eaters got there first, and things didn't go quite well. That's me putting it nicely.

§ - § - §

Dumbledore seemed unperturbed by Hagrid's story, but I was watching the others – McGonagall _did_ flinch once or twice, Dung was shaking his head and repeating _"oh boy"_ all over under his breath; Remus sat stoically, hands folded in his lap, but his eyes had somewhat darkened; and even Sirius gave up his Looking Right Through Me and Not Talking. He said that we should start taking precautions, like, _right now._ With which I quite agreed, to be honest. I've met a Giant once, and _bloody hell._ You don't want to cross them.

All in all, I thought things looked pretty grim back then – hah-hah. My ass. Watch this: when the meeting finally ended (an hour after my favourite sushi bar closes on the corner of Charing Cross Road, mind you), I've had an entire _row_ of people hanging behind to Talk Secretly to Me in that bloody parlour.

First came Hagrid. He wrings his hands (quite comical, the bloke, his hands being bigger than my upper arms), and he goes, _"can I talk ter 'ee?"_ And I'm like, _"yeah, sure."_ So he explains to me – he _fucking_ explains to me that he BROUGHT BACK A GIANT WITH HIMSELF from Minsk, then LET IT LOOSE IN THE BLOODY FORBIDDEN FOREST, because _watch it:_ THAT GIANT IS HIS HALF-BROTHER and he just couldn't leave it behind. Turns out that "Grawp" is "a bit bitey every now and then" and "he'd need some schooling". _"So, er,"_ Hagrid says, and he looks at me with enormous dark puppy eyes, _"thought you could help me tame 'im a bit…" _I blink a few times, and I'm like _"That wasn't NEARLY one of your best jokes." _And he's like, _"Nah, fo' real, I think you could learn ter talk to 'im… and you could talk to the Centaurs, too, they ain't accepting 'im…" _And I'm like, _"Can't imagine why…"_ At that point, Hagrid shrugs apologetically, and he goes, _"Well, since you're going ter be there anyway…"_ And before I could beg to differ, I glimpse that Dumbledore's waiting for me in the back of the room, along with Snape, and my stomach shrinks. What the HELL could those two be wanting from me?!

§ - § - §

…well, essentially, what they wanted was my soul, or life blood, or something like that. Guess what: from January on, I'm going to spend one weekend a month at Hogwarts. You could say that it's not that bad… now watch it: I'm gonna spend those weekends _giving extra lessons to Seventh Years in Defence Against the Dark Arts_.

FACT: _I don't have a NEWT in Defence Against the Dark Arts._ I've always been rubbish at that subject, which is mainly why I dropped it after Fifth Year.

DILEMMA: How on BLOODY EARTH am I going to teach those kids _anything at all…?! _I'm a dragon trainer, for Merlin's sake... And an accountant, for the sake of appearance. There's an _infinite_ number of ways this could go wrong.

§ - § - §

Dumbledore and Snape don't seem to share my concerns. They explained to me that given the Ministry's new-found ambition to control Hogwarts, there's no one else who could fill this position other than me – a supposed spy of Fudge. It's quite possible that I'm going to be double-checked, though, so Snape will be supplying Umbridge with fake Veritaserum, just in case.

Now isn't that bloody beautiful. I'm going back to Hogwarts as a flag-bearer of Dolores Umbridge. Merlin, the kids are going to hate me. They'll probably pull evil pranks on me and stuff. At least, that's what I'd do…

§ - § - §

…so I trudge out of the room, thoroughly exhausted and feeling quite blue, and _then _comes the icing on the bloody cake. None else than Sirius Black calls after me in his croaky deep voice, and he goes _"Can we talk?"_ I turn back to look at him, and he is, like, half-hidden in the shadows of the next room and I can only see his eyes shining out of the dark, as if he'd previously organised the entire scene with a Muggle film crew. And I say _yes,_ because I'm curious, see. I instantly remember him calling me a _fucking slut,_ though, so I keep a good distance from him – far enough that I could slam the door into his face if I must, but close enough that I could lay him a Legendary Slap if he gets nasty once again.

Instead of getting nasty, though, he merely said that he was _"a bit rash sometimes",_ and that he didn't mean to call me _"you know… that"_. I squinted at him, impressed by his ability to navigate around the word "sorry" as if he would choke on it; and he went on, quite awkwardly and inconsequently, _"…it's not like you owe me anything. It's not like we were… I just… I just thought we had something."_

I stared at him like an idiot – I swear, I just couldn't figure him out. So I said, tentatively, _"Well, we did have something until you called me a fucking slut for absolutely no reason at all."_

Him: _"Absolutely no reason at all, is that it? Well of course, after all you just hooked up with that one guy on Donaghan Tremlett's bloody wedding!"_

Me: _"How on Earth do you know about that?"_

Him: _"From the fucking Witch Weekly, you lying bitch!"_

Me (shrieking): _"YOU read the Witch Weekly?!"_

§ - § - §

I mean – let's take a moment to appreciate this. You've got to understand the _enormity_ of the revelation. There's this frightening big man – Azkaban fugitive, supposed mass murderer, absolute badass and ex-Auror and anything you want… and _he reads the Witch Weekly… _I don't think I will ever get over it. Or advocate it. Or accept the fact that it's real.

§ - § - §

Long story short, I was cracking up like hell. I just couldn't, for the life of me, stop laughing. Flapping my knees, tearing up, that kind of thing. And Sirius was just standing there, watching me – arms crossed, Angst Lord Style, making the room's temperature drop by, like, a degree per second. And suddenly, he goes, _"Are you fucking done?"_ So I wipe my eyes, still grinning, and I'm like, _"Yeah… sorry. I just… do you do the horoscope tests, too?" _And there I was. I cracked up again… I was _trying,_ biting my fist and stuff, but it was the kind of laughter that washes over you like a storm, and you just can't do anything to stop it.

And then Sirius goes, _"Well… that's what I was talking about, anyway. For you, it's nothing, but I assumed… it doesn't matter what I assumed. Yes, if you've been wondering, I read the Witch Weekly – as long as I'm locked up in this hellhole, I'll read anything and everything I can put my hands on. Every little morsel of information I can get – so too bad. If you don't want your escapades to be discovered, quit your famous friends."_ That sobered me a bit, and I also found my voice, so I was like, _"Yeah – well. You read it in the Witch Weekly, so it must be true, right?" _He rolled his eyes and said, _"There's photos, and all."_ I bit my lip – laughter was breaking out again – and I said, deadpan, _"You know that wasn't a man, right?"_

Oh, that moment. That Moment. It was _so fucking precious._ If I had a Pensieve, I would re-watch it on sleepless nights on an infinite loop. Sirius looked at me, eyes large like silver Sickles, and he choked, _"What?"_

"_Yeah,"_ I said, _"that was Dora morphed into a man. We pranked my ex, you know. The guy in the fur-coat. I even wanted to tell you about it, it was absolutely hilarious. Most satisfying thing I've done in my entire life. If you don't believe me, ask Dora."_

He didn't say anything for several seconds – he was just staring at me, and I was snickering under my breath (reminiscing, you see). And then he said, _"So after all, you never…"_ Then I glanced up at him and I suddenly felt blue again. I only shrugged. He reached out to touch my face but dropped his hand back very awkwardly, then he said, in a whispery-shaky voice, _"I shouldn't have said that, princess…"_ I snapped up at that. _"Oh, so now I'm suddenly princess again?"_ And he was like, _"I should've listened to you... but when I saw you in that magazine with that guy, I mean, Dora, I was just so goddamn furious, you know? Like, I wanted to set the whole house on fire, or something…"_

§ - § - §

I think that was the point where I kind of forgot that I had left him _"permanently"._ Not the first time, and probably not the last. You know how it goes. Well, at least I had the integrity to mention that he _always_ wanted to set that house on fire, anyway. (See, he _really _doesn't like it _you-know-where_).

He kind of smiled at that, and he said that when I was there, it was almost tolerable. He also said that he'd been wanting to talk to me ever since September, but he just couldn't, because I never came to meetings. He even sneaked out a few times to see me in my flat, but he just never made it to the door.

Oh, boy.

You'll probably think I'm an idiot – but when Sirius Black tells you stuff like that, touches your face and shit, calls you _princess_ and promises you the world, well… at that point, you can't really do anything to stop him. That's the bloody problem here.

So here we go again. See you at the next heartbreak.

§ - § - §

As for why and how exactly Dora disguised herself as my Incredibly Hot Boyfriend… well, one day I'm going to explain that, too. Not now, though. See, I didn't get that much sleep last night. Ahem.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

_\- Rating is due to language, violence and adult themes. The only reason that I did not rate this 'M' is that 'M'-rated stories tend to focus primarily (or solely) on sexuality; which, in this case, could not be further from the truth._

_\- This is a STANDALONE story, but it is consistent with my other HP fics. It takes place a few months after my 'Gadding with Ghouls', where relationships were established between three of the four main characters (Lucy, Remus and Sirius). You don't have to read 'Gadding with Ghouls' to be able to understand this one, but it sure helps._

_\- For obvious reasons, I can't call this story canon-compliant; but I stick to the idea that it's "canon-reverent", in the sense that while I am altering a few events, I also do my best to respect JKR's portrayals of the characters._

* * *

_ONE THING I'M UNSURE OF: The recurring present/past switches are deliberate – the idea is that Lucy got really immersed in writing and she didn't notice them. Is this something that happens in English, or is it ungrammatical/annoying/weird? Natives (and my fellow foreigners), please share your insight!_

_Also, let me know if you liked this – or if you didn't. Reviews are the coin of fic writers :)_


	3. The Guy in the Hat

**19 November 1995**

Had a pretty boring week, but at least Sirius decided to help me out with the DADA stuff. He was an Auror, and all, before things got shitty for him, so he kinda knows what he's doing.

There are other things he is NOT doing, though, such as keeping his hands off me.

. .

I still feel like someone's following me around, so I'm taking extra precautions whenever I go _you-know-where_. I could tell Sirius about it – very tempting. He'd probably offer me to stay, and that would be _wicked,_ but I don't want him to think that I'm a) a coward or b) taking advantage of him. He's being _disconcertingly nice_ these days… almost like a normal person.

Whatever this _thing_ is between us, I don't want to screw it up. I'd much rather continue living in a tent.

* * *

**25 November 1995**

Wanna hear an unknown tale form Beedle the Bard? Here you go –

_Once Upon A Time, there was an idiot who gamed away a purse-ful of gold in one evening. WHOOSH, motherfucker!_

You can guess who that person was, right?

. .

You don't know me very well yet, so here's your bit of explanation: me getting blacked-out-drunk is something that happens… occasionally. Or maybe a bit more often than _occasionally_… Still, you can't really call it a drinking problem. It's a lot more subtle than that. I mean, if I were an alcoholic, I could see a Healer. No Healer can free you from _yourself,_ though, and it's _myself_ that I'm having a problem with. Drinking, smoking and doing stupid shit are just tools to get away, to forget about all the things I could do if I wasn't _myself._

Like saving up. I just decided to do that a few days ago, and it's already clear that I'm not gonna keep up with it.

. .

Sometimes, I ask myself why I am even keeping a diary. When you look at it, it seems totally useless to fill up pages and pages with the fruits of my latest bad decisions. It's kind of addictive, though, because it's _good. _I mean, my writing itself is probably not good, but it gives me _perspective._

. .

Anyway, here goes the tale of _The Guy in the Hat and the Purse of Gold_...

...I saw Sirius on Thursday evening. Talking, sipping whiskey, shooting hexes at each other, that kind of thing. I managed to drag him out of his current Darkly Dramatic Mood (quite an achievement, if you ask me). Due to some unplanned, but somewhat _foreseeable_ consequences, I happened to oversleep the next morning; and I also happened to be late from work. Again.

(Griphook screamed the hairs off my head, one by one, if you must know. If it wasn't for Dumbledore and the Sequestrum, I think he would've had me fired on the spot.)

During my remaining office hours, I tried to be as silent and productive as humanly possible, and I was overly attentive with everyone. But then… well, you know how the saying goes: _One heart attack – no heart attack._ I was ready to lock the office and sneak down to Sequestrum level to do some real work, when I noticed a giant owl at the window. It had a letter addressed to _me,_ written in this neat cursive I didn't recognize. You know what? I hereby desecrate this diary by sticking it in.

. .

_**17 November 1995  
The Graves Residence; Manhattan, New York City, USA**_

_Dear Lucy,_

_I imagine that my letter might come as a shock – the last time I saw you, we did not exactly part on friendly terms. I hope we can put all those inconveniences behind us and focus on the future, which gets me to the subject of my letter._

_Percival and I are_ _coming to England for Christmas, and we thought we would profit of the occasion to see you. Though estranged for so long, we are still your family; and family is a force to be reckoned with._

_Are you perchance available to meet on the twenty-seventh of December, two o' clock, in the Goblin's Gallows, right over Gringotts Bank? __I remember their chocolate is quite excellent… and unlikely as it might seem, your Uncle is truly fond of chocolate._

_Please answer at your earliest convenience._

_Hoping to see you soon,_

_Rowan Graves_

. .

Well. Okay. So I know this diary is starting to look like a textbook with these small framed passages scattered over the pages, but I just can't help it. I like making lists…

. .

Things to know about "Rowan Graves"

One: She is my great aunt. In case you're not a genealogy expert, I spell it out for you: she is my granddad's sister. From my Mum's side.

Two: She is married to Percival Graves, the omnipotent Auror god. Which makes said omnipotent Auror god my great uncle.

Three: We've met only once, and it was fucked up. That's me putting it mildly.

Four: There must be some second thought behind her sudden decision to contact me. See, my family members don't usually pop out of thin air, saying _"Hey Lucy, let me love you!"_

. .

You might be thinking that this is a paranoid reaction to have to a message of _how-do-you-do_ from your auntie, but trust me, you haven't met my family yet.

I read that sodding letter thrice over, and while I was wondering what I should do about it, the owl kept on screeching like Robert Plant on cocaine. I knew it was going to keep on pestering me till I answered.

…I'll stick the draft in. You deserve it.

. .

_(date & pl_ace_)_  
_Gringotts Wizarding Bank, Business Department, Desk 27*_

_Dear Aunt Rowan,_**

_I would be glad to see you_.*** _If there is anything you need to do in Gringotts, don't hesitate to let me know. I think I can help you overstep a few – in your case, unnecessary – security barriers.****_

_By my friend's expert opinion*****, I confirm – chocolate in the 'Gallows is excellent._

_See you after Christmas!_

_Yours,_

_Lucy Dawlish_

. .

_DIDACTIC FOOTNOTES:_

_* sounds CLASSY. Functions: a) you won't have your parents/landlord/etc "accidentally" opening your mail. b) In Case of Necessity: conceals __your real address. c) In Case of Necessity/2: helps you conceal the existence of Boyfriend N°2 from Boyfriend N°1 (don't ask)._

_** slight PULL of FAMILY CHORDS._

_*** EMPHASIS via HIATUS. Implication: "…as much as you'd like to see me."_

_**** implied SENSE OF UNITY via DISCREET BACKSLAPPING._

_***** Author's Note: I have no fucking clue because it's a deluxe restaurant, and I'm a hobo._

. .

…so I sent the letter, hoping I hadn't just signed my own death sentence – and that is when clouds started to gather for the shitstorm. See, I didn't want to go "home" yet. Don't blame me. To tell the truth, it's a bit depressing to fumble your way through a messy tent at nightfall...

Not that I'm complaining or anything. It's charmed, it's equipped by all kinds of things I could possibly need, and sleeping there is okay - but when I have to spend an entire evening in that tent, I get kind of lonely. And not the _peaceful_ kind of lonely, when you watch whatever stupid Muggle film you like and you slide down a whole bottle of vodka alone just because you _can_… No. It's more, like, _existential_-lonely. And _that_ stuff is frightening as fuck: that's why I prefer anything else to my tent these days. Like hanging out with Dora. Or walking around in Diagon Alley. Starting conversations with random blokes so they take me to expensive bars. Stopping by _you-know-where_. That kind of thing.

To be honest, I was kind of contemplating to see Sirius, but that would've been the third night in a row. Way too much. Never let a bloke make himself indispensable...! So I walked through Diagon Alley, looking for an open bar or something. There was the Leaky Cauldron outside, of course, but I'd been there a thousand times with a thousand people, and I was just pissed at Tom, anyway. Offering a room like that for eight Galleons a night really is a _crime_. Food's not even included. And he's the one always complaining about bad times and pinch-pennies.

_Eight Galleons_. My _ass_. Myron and I used to get rooms there for _three_ in the good old eighties. Almost ten years ago. Feels more like ten millennia, though…

. .

I was at this point of my thinking when I had the same weird feeling that is now becoming normality: that of being _followed_. It frustrated me to no end, which is why I decided to do something about my paranoia, like, RIGHT THEN AND THERE.

I have fits of this_ "right then and there" _sometimes – maybe that's why I was a Hatstall between Gryffindor and Slytherin. You know, when the _"right then and there"_ kind of thing kicks in, it's the end of the world for me. I can't control whatever stupid shit I'm going to do next. Like this time. Whoever was following me, it was time to give them the middle finger! So I took a deep breath, waved at my common sense as it dissolved around the corner, and trod down to Knockturn Alley.

Because what on _Earth_ could happen, right…?

. .

My inner Sherlock suggested that whoever was following me (I'd like to imagine a darkly handsome man, kinda like Sirius but better shaved), they had to fit into the snobbish milieu of Gringotts to be able to watch me every day; consequently, they had to stand _out_ from the grime of Knockturn Alley. I mean, you can change your face and your clothes with a few quick spells, but your posture? Your manner of speech? Your gestures? No-no. You need to work harder on those. Therefore (I thought), if Mr Mysterious wanted to follow me closely enough, he had to take a _risk,_and with a growing risk grows the probability of error.

...yeah. Don't look at me like that. In the heat of the moment, it _did_ seem like a sensible idea.

. .

I roamed Knockturn Alley for the better part of an hour, but I saw nothing suspicious – I mean, nothing _particularly_ suspicious for Knockturn Alley. It seemed that I was imagining things: that no one was after me (or they decided not to take the risk of being discovered). My paranoid feeling eased little by little, and I was starting to feel stupid… and _thirsty._

Long story short, I walk into a bar… then another and another… and somehow, I find myself in this casino-like place, filled with suspicious-looking Goblins, a few old crones, and a group of wizards in weird scarlet cloaks. They're having a poker night and given that I'm already a bit tipsy (okay, maybe more than a little), I decide to join them. Dung showed me a few card tricks back in Transylvania, after all… and those, paired with my mental abilities, can be kinda useful at the table…

Now there's something that I forgot to mention. You know, I've always had a knack for Occlumency. It made an excellent liar out of me when I was a kid. I've been doing it for as long as I remember, well before I even realized what I was up to… And I think it was my last year in Hogwarts when I realised that it worked the other way around, too, so that Legilimency was possible. No one ever taught me, but if I concentrate, I can sort of _slide_ into unprotected minds. I mean… I can't hear people's thoughts like a real Legilimens, but I can guess when someone's lying, or hiding something important (or checking me out when I'm not looking). Now imagine _that_ at a poker table. If I wasn't completely zonked out, I'd have been INVINCIBLE. I was still doing pretty good, though, at least up until the point when I had the equivalent of, like, 1000 Galleons in chips. Then I managed to lose all that money in one shot. BOOM. I couldn't fucking believe it.

The problem was that I had cheated, you see. Big time. I didn't have _half_ the coin on me, so the Goblins were starting to get nasty, then _insistent._ So I drew my wand… and _ta-daah,_ that's how you find yourself in the middle of a bar fight at 1 AM in Knockturn Alley.

One of the weird scarlet wizards found my purse and ran off with it – I tried out Sirius's Stickfast Hex on him and he got stuck in the doorway like a fly in a catcher. It was a delight to watch. The others, however, decided that if I play poker so carelessly, I must be stinking rich; so they started demanding all the gold I didn't have. You know how it goes. I don't really know what happened then, because I was _mountain troll-drunk,_ as Dora would put it… but suddenly, someone grabbed my arm. It was _Remus,_ of all people. So I was like _"You?! Here?!" _(Or - respectively to my then-state - the accurate letter-to-sound representation might rather be, _"oooo?! eeeeeee?!"_)

And Remus said pretty much the same thing, I guess, although he must have been in a state adept to pronounce consonants.

I think he also said a string of _other _words, from a register that he doesn't normally use.

. .

Remus tells me that he dragged me out of the bar (without my purse) and we clambered away. And _of course_, where else can you go in Knockturn Alley than… That's right. Another bar.

Remus put me down in a corner like a sack of corns (I actually remember that one!), then he walked to the counter and came back with something that looked suspiciously like a Dragon's Wrath. Then, he asked if I was feeling all right, in a tone that evoked a faint, but quite _menacing_ impression of a displeased Professor McGonagall.

I tried to say _"Peachy,"_ and also _"Thank you so much, you're a wonderful person_" before he could have said anything else – as a means of prevention, you know. What _truly _came out of my mouth, though, was unfortunately a bit less clear. Remus said nothing for an awfully long time – actually, he was looking at me in a way that I almost sobered. Then he was like, _"What do you think you're doing?!"_ And I was like, _"Not a clue. That's the fucking point."_

Remus, like the saint he is, _still_ didn't get judgemental; and an Awkward and Sometimes Tearful Conversation ensued about me feeling lonely, me being unused to normal people's timetables and lifestyles, and me being a bit of a loose cannon, honestly.

. .

I normally wouldn't say so, but okay – let's admit that I have some… _issues_. The thing is, I've been travelling the world for five years before Dumbledore asked me to work for the Order. I'm 25 now… It's been a while since both Hogwarts and the Scamander Academy, where I was given the boot after a year because I stole a Hungarian Horntail's egg. Okay, and I might have also slept with the rector's husband. But that's not important right now. The important thing is that I've completely forgotten how to, I don't know, do the things normal people do…? Pay your rent, eat your vegetables, spend fix hours at fix places. Through those five years on the road, I got used to doing whatever the fuck I pleased and whenever the fuck I pleased, without any rules or commitments. And you know, sometimes these things sort of… _crash down _on me.

At some point, though, during the mission in Transylvania, something changed; and I don't recognize myself anymore. Maybe that's what they call an identity crisis.

Like this time. I thought I would find solace in going on a bar trip along Knockturn Alley, but things changed… _I _changed… the entire _world_ changed, and the solace I've ordered is bloody nowhere.

. .

…anyway, I was kind of breaking down in that bar in the middle of the night, and Remus was holding me and everything. Suddenly, as I squinted out above his shoulder, I noticed a dark figure leaning tiredly against the counter (long cloak, hat, face in the shades), and I realized that the same guy had been watching me playing poker. So I did, like, the stupidest thing you can do when you realize someone's following you: I stared right at him - and so did Remus. His arms tensed around me, so sudden and so hard that I almost jumped. He was watching that stranger with an expression that reminded me of, you know, the _wolf_.

Then _poof_, we Disapparated.

Things get a bit blurry afterwards. I remember arriving somewhere I've never been before, and I remember half-shrieking_ "where's the fuckin' loo?!"_

And _then,_ well, you can probably figure out what happened. I won't spell it out for you.

. .

This morning, I woke up in Remus's bed with a cup of Remus's bloody perfect hot chocolate steaming on the nightstand, more hungover than I've ever been in my entire life. And Remus himself, this absolute SWEETHEART had slept on the couch. I swear, I'll never deserve this kind of friend. He's _incredible_.

It wouldn't be me, of course, if I didn't manage to anger him all the same. Because while we were having breakfast, he casually told me that the guy in the hat appeared to be following me. And I was like, _"I've had this vague feeling that someone was after me __anyway__. At least now we know."_

And Remus goes: _"You knew you were being followed and told no one?! Lucy, this is important!"_

Me: _"I knew you would switch to Shining Knight mode."_

Him: _"Well, I bloody well should! It could be a Death Eater!"_

Me: _"Okay. I promise I'll tell Dumbledore... But no one else. I don't want anyone else to know about it. Especially not Sirius._ _Okay?"_

. .

I really hope he got the message. If Sirius Black learns about the suspected "Death Eater" following me, he will personally murder him. And _then_ he can go right back to his Azkaban cell.

Now don't get me wrong. Sirius is not like _that_. I mean… most of the time, he's a nice guy. The thing is, you never know when the _naughty_ Sirius kicks in – the Sirius you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley. The Sirius who, I think, would be perfectly capable of murder.

Hell, he once broke a Muggle's nose because he was _looking at my legs_.

. .

As of now: I'm still here with Remus. It's Saturday morning (okay… maybe afternoon), and we're having the time of our lives. Him – reading a study in _Transfiguration Today_. Me – writing. The bloody rain – falling. The guy in the hat –

Well, I hope he shat himself. I'd definitely have, if Remus ever looked at me like that.

. .

ADDITION: It's a bit later. We made brownies, and I've got to tell you – while I was mixing the dough, something occurred to me.

Remus was standing next to me in this ridiculous apron I turned to pink when he wasn't looking. He was breaking up a chocolate bar with his bare hands instead of magic, I don't know why. And I asked him, _"How did you know that guy was – you know, a bad guy?" _And he's like: _"I didn't – but I knew he was using Polyjuice potion."_ Me: _"Okay, but how did you know that?" _Him: _"I could smell it." _Me: _"Smell it?! Like – you know, like…"_

Then, we both stopped what we were doing, and we stared at each other. And Remus said, quite grimly, _"Yeah. Like wolves do."_

* * *

**28 November 1995**

Slept with Naughty Sirius yesterday. I've got to make the distinction, I think, because I'm torn between not wanting to see him ever again and being pretty darn curious to find out what on earth happened to him in jail that fucked him up like this.

I just can't figure him out. One minute he seems far away and a bit aloof, like most of the guys who were actually into me… and I start to feel like well, _maybe_… then next thing I know, he tosses me away like trash.

I think I should start believing in karma, because that's what I usually do to people. I toss them away like the trash they are. And now that it's being done to _me,_ I can tell you it's bloody disconcerting. It's like_ I_ am trash, too. It's like shagging _myself._

The bad thing about shagging yourself is that you can't walk away from it.

Not that I couldn't walk away from Sirius Black if I wanted to. It's just that I don't think I even want to.

* * *

**30 November 1995**

(Setting = after work, out in Diagon Alley. Some alcohol – obviously – involved.)

REMUS: So you're actually keeping a diary!

ME: Kind of. I really wish I could write better, though – you know, the sort of text you'd read with Received Pronunciation and all.

REMUS: You can read anything with Received Pronunciation, though.

ME: I'm talking _concise phrases_. You know. If I do that, I forget what I wanted to say in the first place. Same thing when you're, like, _real angry_ and all you can suddenly say is _"Don't get me started!" _And you're all red and blabbering like a fatted turkey…

REMUS: …and then you walk home, prepare a tea, jump into the shower and with the jet of hot water comes a fleeting inspiration of verbal rape.

ME: _Verbal rape?_

REMUS: I mean, you fuss over the way you could've said _"I'll boot your effing balls to Kingdom Come"_ instead of _"Don't get me started". _And you're very pleased with your own ingenuity, until you realise that it wasn't really you but Tony Harrison.

ME: …

. .

CONCLUSION: Remus fucking Lupin is a fucking poet. I love him so much.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

A _'Dragon's Wrath'_ is a wizarding cocktail that warms you instantly and has the convenient side-effect of making you spit orange flames.

_Rowan Graves_ is my friend Hirfael's OC – in fact, our HP stories take place in the same universe, and some of our characters are related, although the main happenings of her side of the story occur in her **_'Relic Hunters'_.** Be sure to check out her profile and works! :)

Wanna know who is following Lucy and why? Find out in Chapter One of **Hirfael**'s _'Tales of the Graves'! s/13301915/2/Tales-of-the-Graves _


	4. Episodical Affections

**4 December 1995**

I know that's kind of hard to imagine at this point, but there's more to my life than getting in trouble and sleeping with Sirius Black. It's been a month, and I haven't even told you about my job.

Guess I should, though, no matter how complicated it is. Because trust me, it _is_ complicated. When people learn that I'm a Gringotts clerk, they usually treat me like a rock star without even asking _what_ I exactly do there. Do I sweep the floors? Do I prepare Griphook's morning coffee? Do I sit in a bureau all day?

. .

My job interview for the Greatest Wizarding Bank Ever included myself, Director Ragnuk and Minister Fudge who gave us both an hour-long lecture about the Importance of This Project on A Wide Political Scale, Bringing Wizards and Goblins Together, and all that jazz. As if it wasn't all about Ministry debt, and Dumbledore conspiring with the Goblins right under his nose._ I _was supposed to be interviewed, you know, and I don't think I spoke more than my greetings.

…oh boy. That's one of _those_ memories – the ones that come back to me when I'm trying to sleep but they make me cringe so hard that I just can't. Here it goes – we're sitting in the 'Gallows (where you can't have a mocha for less than five bloody Galleons) and Fudge is just going_ on and on,_ and I'm positive he wouldn't stop before I DIE out of embarrassment. I'm folding my skirt this way and that way. Director Ragnuk is drumming on the table. I taste my tea, and it's too bloody sweet. Then Fudge FINALLY leaves the room, and Director Ragnuk gives this quiet, almost _courteous _snort under his breath. And he goes, _"D'you think he keeps his brains in his hat, pretty? Takes 'em down on occasion?" _And I'm like, _"What brains?"_

It was supposed to be my first day at work. All tidied up – high heels, makeup, not smelling like leather and dung for once – and you can't imagine how nervous I was. I've never had an office job before, just ones where I had to serve pints or tame dragons. Or dig Bill Weasley out of the occasional hole… Anyway, I didn't have a clue what to say or how to behave. I only knew that Goblins were not humans and that they liked gold, underdone steaks and phrases with a double meaning. Oh, and that they probably pissed on the _Wide Political Scale_ Fudge was going on and on about.

. .

I think Director Ragnuk decided that he liked me. Perhaps that's why I wasn't immediately fired when I broke that super expensive vase in Griphook's office. You could say that it was nothing you couldn't fix with a single _Reparo _but you'd be wrong; Goblin artefacts are _loaded_ with magic, and breaking-then-repairing them modifies a fat lot of things about their nature.

If you overlook the fact that this information was screamed at me in an unnaturally high-pitched voice, it _was_ an interesting lesson. Professor Flitwick sure as hell forgot to mention that the vase you repair with a spell will no longer be the same _exact_ vase as before. As I understand, it all has to do with continuity, consequentiality and some other Arithmancy stuff entirely beyond my grasp.

. .

OTHER THINGS I'VE LEARNED ABOUT GOBLINS

First: they're great liars. _Talented._ Subtle. Clever. They know how to sprinkle general (and often harsh) truths with a bit of exaggeration, or retaliation, or doubt… and your own imagination does the rest. All in all, you gotta be really darn careful with them.

Second: Once you tick them off, they have _bad_ temper – save perhaps Ragnuk, who is just perpetually sardonic instead. Maybe that's why they chose him to be the Director.

Third: They're one closed community – extremely closed and extremely self-protective. Only, sometimes there are clan wars and everyone gets murdered over stupid shit. I've never actually seen a clan war, but Griphook told me about one that was fought over a bag of diamonds and another one in which Clan 1 stole Clan 2's Welsh Green egg and replaced with a river stone.

Fourth: IMPECCABLY PROFESSIONAL. Not a Knut goes missing from the vaults. Not _one_ client walks out the door unsatisfied. We're all dead serious about our jobs here, or else we're immediately given the boot.

…that's Gringotts for you. No random coffee breaks. No yawning. No quickies with the good-looking accountant from the neighbouring box. Just _work._ Huh. I remember walking home after my first day in the Business Department, convinced that I'd never racked my brain so much in my entire life.

. .

Then, there are the Goblins who roam all over Knockturn Alley by night. If those little guys are bank clerks, then I'm a reincarnation of Merlin. So one day, I asked Ragnuk if he had to do something about blackmail, Leprechaun gold and money laundering – just _occasionally,_ you know. And he was like, _"No. That's my brother." _And that's how I met Gnarlak, this shady ex-gangster who is allegedly "a good guy now". He uses more four-letter words than Sirius and I combined and his cigs kick like a Hippogriff. I personally think he's brilliant.

Then there's Griphook, my supervisor, about whom you already know that he yells a lot. He started off as an engineer in the mines, but Ragnuk figured that he had a knack for negotiation and put him to the upper circle of the Business Department. Now he's my boss. It's also him who taught me how to set currency rates.

I never thought I'd say this, but _I love my job_. It's fascinating. Imagine that the Head Auror in the United States tells something loony about prisoners' rights, or it turns out that Bulgarian economy is falling. Well-well… Scandal Ensues – impeachment procedures, that kind of thing. And we, at the Business Department of the only International Wizarding Bank in Europe, get to decide if the dragots should be cheaper today with 4,534 Knuts because Edward Limus is an asshole, or on the contrary, the Bulgarian basilisk-eyes should gather plus two-twenty because three days later, it turns out that the economy rumour was just created out of political enmity.

Now that I understand how currency rates are being calculated, I find this awesome. Really. It makes you strangely powerful to sit above that table and joke about Veela-chasers and vegetarian vampires while you raise the value of money with a snap of your fingers. My Dad always wanted me to be "influential" – well, here you go, old man…

This is my diary, though, so I'll have to be honest: the truth is that power aside, Gnarlak's hilariously incorrect jokes aside, EVERYTHING ASIDE, the power of public opinion scares the shit out of me. Hard to describe… but let's say it is an _avalanche_. Once it gets out of control, there's no stopping it; and if you happen to stand at the wrong spot… well, you blink once and _poof, _you're six feet under.

All you need is a story that catches attention, and you have opened the gold-mine. ONE single revelation about the fact that X is corrupt and Y cheated on his wife lowers the value of money in entire COUNTRIES.

Bloody hell.

* * *

**15 December 1995**

I finally cornered Dumbledore _you-know-where_ after the Order meeting. Super hard to speak to the man – he always looks like he's off to save the world in five minutes, and he doesn't have time for your shit. But this was _important._ See, I've been increasingly bothered by my auntie's letter last month, and I wanted Dumbledore to know about it. You know, just in case… and I have also promised to tell him about the guy in the hat, if you remember. The trick was to somehow get around Sirius, because I didn't want him to hear any of it.

So we hurry into this dark room, and we sit down in a pair of moth-eaten armchairs. I light my wand and whisper, _"There is something I have to tell you, Professor…". _And Dumbledore's like, _"Obviously," _but he doesn't say anything else, he just waits. So I tell him what happened, and I say I am certain my relatives want something from me, but I don't know what.

Dumbledore only smiled and said that everything was going to be all right, and I didn't have to worry, and that he was happy to hear from my aunt and uncle. _"They're great people,"_ he said thoughtfully, and there was something weird about his expression, something I could not quite put my finger on; so I asked, _"Do you know them well?"_ And he was like, _"Well enough."_ Me: _"Will you tell me about it?"_ Him: _"One day."_

So that was it. See, I sort of _wanted_ to tell Dumbledore the rest, I _really_ did, but at the moment, it just seemed ridiculous. I tell you what – the guy in the hat wanted my money. He saw me in that bar and kept following me through the night. Then Remus gave him the fright he deserved. End of story.

I mean, why the hell would anyone want to follow me? I'm just being paranoid. And I'm sure Dumbledore has plenty of other things to worry about.

. .

When Dumbledore was gone, I looked around in the room. Must have been a living room or a bureau once, with a long back wall, covered in this faded tapestry thing. It was a giant version of the Black family tree – not at all surprising, since _you-know-where _had once been the home of the Blacks.

Sirius never really talks about his family, but I already know that the terrible screaming portrait in the corridor is that of his mother, Walburga Black; and that the grumpy old house-elf, Kreacher had once been the Blacks' beloved family servant. I know all about wanting to ignore your roots, so I never really asked Sirius for more detail – now, though, my curiosity got the better of me, and I scanned the tapestry. I was mostly searching for the Corbitts – see, my Mum was a Corbitt, and I know that they were one of those _Sacred_ before my granddad took a Muggle-born wife to have Mum and her sister Lucy.

Hm. I might have been named after her. I don't know.

Anyway, I _did_ find one or two Corbitts – respectively, from _before_ the ominous marriage of my granddad happened – but I also found a few other unpleasant things. For example, the spot where Sirius should have been was replaced by a neat dark hole of burnt fabric.

He _did _tell me that he ran away when he was sixteen, but I somehow never figured that it was _that_ bad. He also had a brother who died embarrassingly young, and not a _word_… so much for being honest with me, I guess.

And that's not the worst. As I was reading that tapestry all over, I found a branch, right next to Sirius's – his cousins. Three sisters. Narcissa Black, Bellatrix Black, and another black hole.

It was _that_ Bellatrix Black. The one who married off to Rodolphus Lestrange, became one of You-Know-Who's servants, and killed my mother.

Sirius's _cousin._ Now isn't that fucking ironic. How – I mean, really, HOW could this family produce someone like him? But wait, it gets EVEN WORSE_._ At further inspection, I could read a letter 'A' next to that Bellatrix (the rest was burned) and I instantly realized…

_Andromeda. _It had to be Andromeda. Dora's mother. _My best friend's mother,_ and I spent half my summers in her house. She made me lemonade and brownies, and bought me ice cream, _and her sister murdered my mother_ and she never told me a word about it. Neither did Dora.

Does she even _know,_ though?

. .

…so that was fucking it, I had to sit down. I tried to cry, but of course I couldn't. I can never cry about Mum, not even after all these years. The lump is always there in my throat, but there's no swallowing it.

Anyway, I was sitting there, curled up in a ball of angst, and suddenly I heard the house-elf's slouching steps on the parquetry. As usual, he was going on and on about all of us being blood traitor scum and Sirius smelling of booze (he's kind of right about that one). I glanced up, as suddenly and maleficently as I could manage, and of course he was all like_ "Kreacher hasn't noticed young Mistress", _blah-blah-blah.

I was on the verge of sending him down to fucking hell like I always tell Sirius _not _to, but I noticed something in his hands. A golden medallion. It was the same thing we've dumped into the trash, like, more than three times already. Apparently, it is important for Kreacher, although he doesn't tell us _why._ He's all paranoid about it, as if we wanted to destroy the thing, or something. But why would we? Sirius would probably just toss it out like trash and be done with it; Dung would probably game it away; and the rest of us… well, I don't know.

I think I'd take it to Borgin & Burkes. I once bought a candleholder there for Bill; it had the habit of shouting obscenities in the most random situations you can imagine. He loved it. Of course, that was before he had that stupid Veela girlfriend.

Anyway, back to Kreacher – as soon as he realised that I saw the medal, he was gone. Like, _poof_. Maybe he hid it under his bed, or something. I don't know where he sleeps, and I don't know why he would care so much.

There's something profoundly weird about that medallion. Or Kreacher. Or both.

. .

I was thinking about this all evening. I didn't even realize that I'd left without saying hello to Sirius.

I hope he won't get all Lord Byron about it.

* * *

**23 December 1995**

STATUS QUO: So… You-Know-Who might have just tried to have me killed. (COMMENTARY: But _why?!)_

CONSEQUENCE 1: I don't know what to do now.

CONSEQUENCE 2: I'm stuck _you-know-where_ for Christmas, along with Sirius, the Weasley family and Harry Potter. Yes. THE Harry Potter.

. .

Okay. So I'll try to tell you what happened. I'll try to give it some semblance of sense.

. .

Arthur Weasley sought me out on Thursday after my meeting with Fudge and offered me to exchange shifts. Now… about _shifts_. Thing is, there's something in the Ministry that You-Know-Who would very much like to have. It's not technically a _weapon,_ but let's stay with that. Anyway… the Order has to constantly watch the thing, right under Fudge's nose. So here we are, doing a job most of us couldn't be less qualified for… because the people who ARE qualified are ignorant asshats.

Now look me in the eye and _dare_ tell me that's not typical.

. .

…back to Arthur. So I met him in the elevator (it was just the two of us so we could talk), and he explained to me that he was about to have a meeting the next evening that he had to _absolutely_ attend, (kind of rare for the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, mind you), and that it would save his life if we could change shifts.

Well, it didn't really save his life at the end, but I'll get to that later.

I said yes, of course – I mean, he's always been nice to me, plus he's in the Order, too, so why wouldn't I help him out? Anyway, I ended up taking the shift that Thursday evening instead of him. Then, I spent the rest of the night in this wicked Muggle club, trying not to drink my face off.

Next morning, I went to work – neat robes, pretty hair, lipstick, high heels. And I wasn't even late. Hah. See that, Griphook…? I was so proud of myself, you can't imagine.

It was a perfect day. Light snowfall. Comfy music in Diagon Alley. Barely noticeable hangover. Gingerbread discount at Fortescue's. And on top of it all, I ran randomly into Remus after work and he invited me over for dinner. We resumed our previous conversation of almost a month ago (that's one thing I absolutely adore about Remus; he's just so easy to talk to). He made hot chocolate and we played Carcassonne until late in the night. _Very late_. It was new moon, so Remus was at his best, all cheery and lively. You'd barely think it was him.

And then everything escalated. Quickly.

. .

It could be, I think, four in the morning. My dragon was burning off the roof of Remus's castle and Remus's pigs were eating up all the corn I've grown for _eight bloody turns_. In the meantime, Remus's Chief Knight took to poking the dragon's nose with his lance, squeaking _be-gaune, fell bestiole! Be-gaune!_ in his hilarious French accent. We were both waiting for my dragon to start spitting fire again, and in fact, there really was a sound of cracking fire coming from somewhere in the room – only, it was not the dragon figurine but the _fireplace_.

It was Dumbledore. He stared right at me, as if he was trying to see through my bones (I really hate it when he does that), and he was like, _"There you are."_

We continued to stare at him, and he said, _"Arthur Weasley is currently being treated in Saint Mungo's. He's been attacked."_

Remus and I looked at each other above the table, and a Somewhat Theatrical Scene followed, in which Remus accused me (very rightfully) of not having told Dumbledore what was going on with the guy in the hat. I was trying to explain myself but Remus was _really_ mad at me and he threatened to tell Sirius. I felt that it was time to, as Gnarlak puts it, _calmer le jeu; _so I said, _"Remus, look. You guys are not my parents, or something –"_

At that point, Dumbledore cleared his throat, so we suddenly realised that he was still there and swallowed the rest of our argument quite awkwardly. And he was like, _"I have been looking for you for the better part of the last hour by Sirius's bidding, in fact, who would be ready to shake the Minister himself from his sleep if it meant finding out where you were."_

Dumbledore graciously ignored that I had turned bright pink, and he said he would also appreciate if I revealed whatever Remus believes I should have told him. And when Dumbledore asks you something like that, you'd better obey.

You might forgive me if I admit that I cut the Knockturn Alley part somewhat short, though.

. .

So it turns out that Arthur got bitten by You-Know-Who's giant venomous snake, and if we hadn't exchanged shifts, it would've been me. In fact, the entire Order thought I'd gone missing because Arthur forgot to tell them about our agreement, and Dumbledore had to personally restrain Sirius from breaking into the Ministry to look for me. He quickly streamed Harry and the Weasley kids into his house instead so he could play the Responsible Adult.

Well-well. Guess I should go missing a bit more often.

Anyway, the situation didn't fully register in my brain until Dumbledore said, _"Now you Floo through to the Headquarters, and you don't move a step until I say so. We still do not know what might lurk in the dark."_

So I'm like, cautiously: _"Wait a second… Professor Dumbledore, do you mean that the snake… the attack… that it was meant for ME?"_ And Dumbledore looks at me sharply, and he's like, _"We do not know."_

_Well,_ I tell myself, _shit_.

I stared at my dragon as it roamed over Remus's village on the Carcassonne board. The houses were reduced to ash; and on the opposite side, my mayor was herding my archers upon the town walls to shoot Remus's impetuous pigs.

And I felt as if all blood had been drained out of my body. As if I could faint in any second. As if the world was going to end, or something.

But of course it didn't.

This was just an assassination attempt.

. .

…so that's how I found myself _you-know-where_ before dawn.

As soon as I was through the Floo Network, Sirius rushed into the room, wand drawn – paler and more scruffy-looking than ever – and I swear, the look in his eyes was enough to freeze the blood in my veins. _Merlin._ You don't wanna get to the wrong side of that man.

Thankfully, Sirius thought of actually _looking around _before he started blowing shit up (that's a first!) so he stopped short and stared at me. I stared back at him, and we were both standing stupidly for several precious seconds. Then he said, _"Fucking finally!",_ he crossed the room in three long strides and kissed me so hard that I suddenly couldn't quite breathe.

I would've been happy to leave it at that, but _of course _he had to switch into mother hen mode, like _"you look pale, princess"_ and _"are you all right?" _and _"what happened?"_ and _"where the fuck have you been anyway?!". _To which I said, quite awkwardly, _"I was playing Carcassonne with Remus" – _and that's how I found myself in the crossfire of his sick temper once again. Because _how dare I,_ and _it's past 4 AM,_ and _he was worried sick,_ and all that jazz. I said that he wasn't my Dad or something, so he worked himself all up once again and he said that of course he wasn't, because unlike my Dad, he was there for me.

At that point, I called him a fucking asshole, and he looked like he was going to shatter his whiskey glass on my head or something, but he suddenly just held my face in between his hands and he kissed me again. I was wondering if I should bite him like _real bad_ or something, but I didn't. I don't know why. I had to fight back tears instead, which is kind of hard to do with another person's tongue in your mouth. Luckily, I'm an expert.

At least the whiskey glass remained intact. We're gonna need that shit.

. .

Naughty Sirius went to sleep, and Nice Sirius ended up carrying me to his room and tucking me in as if I was a little girl. Nothing even "happened", you know. I was actually very thankful for it. I mean, not because "nothing happened" but because he tucked me in. I don't think anyone else than Mum has ever tucked me in.

I asked Sirius if he knew Arthur was all right, and he said that he was alive. There was a short pause, then he added thoughtfully, _"I guess that qualifies as all right," _and I burst out laughing. Dunno why. I sometimes just laugh at things Sirius says, even if they're not funny.

Then, he blew out the candle on the nightstand and told me that I should sleep, and that he'd get downstairs to look after the kids. I said okay, of course, but I was actually quite upset he'd leave. I don't like to be alone in his room – the air is dry and heavy, and I can only wonder what sorts of things had happened there between him and his terrible parents, or what sorts of thoughts does he have before he sleeps. Not that my own pre-sleep expatiations are usually very cheerful, mind you.

I know he was trying to be nice, but it would have been _decidedly_ nicer if he'd just locked the door and shagged the living soul out of me.

At least I'd know where we stand.

. .

Yeah. That's the problem here. I'm frightened.

It's not that he got furious at me for nothing once again, or that he had been worried about me that frightens me so much. Nor the suspicion that someone has been following me. Not even the fact that if not for Arthur's meeting, I would probably have bled to death alone in a dark underground chamber.

It's just that _I don't fucking know where we stand._

It's hard to explain… but this is my diary, my sanctuary of Being Honest… because I sure as hell cannot be honest in real life. And because of that, I'll try to give you –

. .

**LUCY'S REVELATIONS ON THE NATURE OF RELATIONSHIPS**

Part One – General Overview and Hypothesis

As soon as you grow tits and generally become a _woman_ instead of a silly little girl, you'll very soon learn that there are guys like _this_ and guys like _that._ And if (like myself) you refuse to marry yourself off to the first bloke who got into your panties and juggle each Knut out of his low-paying Ministry job, you'll also learn that there are affairs like _this_ and affairs like _that. _There's friendly shagging, casual shagging, shagging because you're sad, shagging to get revenge, shagging to help someone get revenge… and so forth.

In any case, there's some invisible LINE that you never CROSS, because that would mean getting INVOLVED. And in most cases, that's no good for anybody.

Usually, though, you learn that the hard way.

Part Two – Personal Exemplification

Let's face it, I've been with a _certain number_ of men. Your average Pureblood miss would say I've shagged half the world; a _real_ hooker, on the other hand, would probably consider that I've seen nothing. Everything is just a matter of perspective.

People usually think I'm a gold digger, and maybe they're not entirely wrong. I _was_ a gold digger once. I still have nightmares about it sometimes.

See, when I ran away from home, I had nothing but my school stuff, and my Dad's service car. I stole it. I was still underage, and I couldn't just run away _on foot – _that would've been so… _slummy, _you know?

Anyway, school was over in two years and I decided that I wanted to make something of myself. I applied to the Scamander Academy in Canada but my grades dropped after the second semester because I had to work overnight to be able to, you know, eat and stuff. It wasn't like Hogwarts. Essentially, I lost my scholarship because _I had to buy food somehow;_ and the only way I found to pay my tuition – to get a false certification that it had been payed, that is – was to get into a nasty underhanded affair with the rector's husband.

Only, the lines were not that clear. He was actually quite good at pretending to love me, which is why I found out so belatedly that he was an asshole (and so I did my best to pretend that I was _still_ only digging for his gold). Face-saving operation, you know. Better to be called a vulturous little bitch than a naïve one.

See, I'm not playing the victim here. I knew exactly what I was doing. Well, most of the time. And I wasn't hoping for a miracle, either. Well… not at the beginning.

I told you that bit about learning things the hard way, haven't I? I thought that man cared for me. I thought his wife was a nasty crone who kept him in check. I thought he was going to leave her, and everything was going to be all right.

Guess what… I was wrong. What a surprise, eh?

Part Three: Behavioural Analysis

I think I've been continuously avenging that gold-digging thing. Ever since. I take it all out on people because I can't figure it out by myself. It's not even that I do it on purpose; most of the time, I just don't realize that I've been doing it again. And from that point on, it's basically me dumping the guy before I'd get dumped. Sometimes, it's literally a _race._

_And then cometh the weeping and gnashing of teeth,_ Remus would probably say now, and point his finger to the ceiling.

He's too good for this world, Remus. When he's not a giant manslaughtering wolf, that is.

Part Four: Conclusion by Foresight

So that's why Sirius continues to frighten me with his… _episodical affection._ Sometimes he seems like the coldest person I've ever met, but some other times it's evident that he actually _does_ care about me.

I never wanted him to. Merlin, _I didn't._ He deserves WAY better than me… and he's not an idiot, Sirius. He'll figure it out, too, as soon as he'll be out of that terrible house and he could walk free once again. He'll realize that there are plenty of fish in the sea, most of whom are not nasty and unbalanced like me. And if I continue caring about him the way I do, _that_ will hurt like a bitch…

ADDENDUM: It's not like I'm incapable of loving people, you see. I have a heart, too, and I _do_ love Sirius in my own way – or at least, I care about him. Pretty much. It's just that I want to keep my distance, because every time I grow to trust somebody, they spit right into my face at the moment I'd expect it the least.

And let's face it: I've been horrible with so many people – why would I deserve kindness or care, then? Even in Muggle fairy tales, it's not the dirty witch who gets the prince but the blushing little maid who could never hurt a fly.

I guess Muggles aren't idiots, either.

. .

So there I was, thinking about such cheerful things for the remainder of the night. And when I had relatively calmed down about the prospect of Sirius leaving me (I don't know, are we even _together_…?) my mind switched into alertness, and I started theorising how the _hell _could Arthur survive. Who noticed he was there…? How could the help arrive in time…? Does You-Know-Who actually _want_ us to know it was him…? I wrecked my brain for possible explanations, but nothing came up, other than the somewhat far-fetched concept that You-Know-Who was pulling a Lockhartian stunt, and it was actually a fake snake that bit a fake Arthur, and the Healers that were to treat him in Mungo's were currently being slaughtered with Muggle kitchen knives to hide the evidence.

At that point, it occurred to me that I might be a little bit tired, so I conjured a flask of Sleeping Draught from my bag.

Sirius didn't come back at all. Guess he was with the kids.

. .

That being said, I don't think I can look the Weasley kids in the eye now. I mean… their dad almost died because of me, and Mrs Weasley still hates me because I'm Bill's ex.

Wait until she finds out that I'm Charlie's ex, too.

* * *

**26 December 1995**

Actually, Christmas ended up quite nice. We buried the hatchet with Mrs Weasley – now she's all for hating the idea of Bill's new girlfriend. I'm kind of a partner at that, so we're cooking together and stuff. Her, Sirius and me. I never thought this would happen, it sounds like a play from Beckett.

Anyway, It's cheerful in here. We have fake snow and lanterns and a giant Christmas tree; we eat a lot, we drink a lot, the twins are progressing with their wicked Wizarding Wheezes, and – hold on – Sirius found an old guitar in the attic so he's now giving random concerts of _God Bless Ye Merry Hippogriffs _and so on. Or stuff like _Wish You Were Here,_ on better days. He actually _can _sing a bit.

I think this might be the happiest Christmas I've ever had.

. .

I've taken all my remaining days off, so I won't have to work between the holidays. I'm not really writing these days, because everything is relatively O.K. – and when everything is O.K., you take it for granted and just forget to tell about it.

One thing I'd really like to talk about, though, is Harry Potter. The boy is SO NOT what I expected. We have only spoken briefly in August – I managed to sort of cheer him up before his hearing in the Ministry for underage magic, so I think he's okay with me. He's Sirius's godson, and they're very close.

I didn't really want to get into that at first. I've rarely been with guys who had kids, or anything along those lines, because the kids were annoying – I mean, when it's just for a night, nobody cares, but you wouldn't want to get into something like _that _on the long term. And let's face it, this _is_ becoming long term now. _Maybe_.

Anyway, Harry's super cool in that respect. Might have something to do with being a teenage hero, being threatened all the time and having to save the world, like, two times a year. I really admire him for all the shit he takes from the Ministry. As I hear, Umbridge is giving him a really hard time, calling him a liar, banning him from the Quidditch pitch (he's a wicked Seeker) and punishing him all the time… so what does Harry do? He organizes a SECRET STUDENT SOCIETY against Umbridge and the Ministry. Now if that's not 100% punk, I don't know what is.

And _he's a nice person._ I've learned that only recently. See, one day I was struggling with my Patronus Charm, alone in that room with the tapestry. I was trying to get it right before that day's DADA training with Sirius, and of course I couldn't do it. The Patronus Charm is something that I simply can't do – _think of something happy and conjure some immaterial guardian in front of you that will chase your monsters away! Because a fucking memory can remedy all! Go on, girl, help yourself!_ (Ridiculous).

So I was getting all worked up about my Patronus, and Harry caught me swearing quite colourfully under my breath as I stared at my silver cloud of utter defiance. And you know how it is – you just feel it when someone's watching you. I did my best to smile and I said, _"You didn't hear anything, yes?" _Harry grinned, but then he looked at me all seriously, as if he wanted to say something but wasn't sure that he should. And suddenly, he's like, _"It doesn't have to be a happy memory, you know."_

Me: _"What?"_

Him: _"I was struggling with that, too. I'm not a happy person."_

Me: _"How astonishing."_

Him: _"Yeah. So, you know, it's just… sort of…"_

Me: _"Sort of…?"_

Him: _"So, it's… you think of something like a shield. Something that makes you think, like, 'sod off Dementor, I'm having none of your crap.'" _(Pause). _"Something worth fighting for. Because Dementors make you feel like nothing really matters, but that's not true."_

I stare at him, completely stunned, and he becomes red as his scar, and he says, _"I guess that doesn't make that much sense, but…"_ And he has clearly no idea what to say next, but I'm like, _"Actually, that changes everything."_ I rummage my brain a bit, I try again, and –

Well, of course, no Breakthrough happened. But Harry's positive that it was a lot brighter this time. What a sweetheart.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

_The unofficial soundtrack for this chapter would definitely be 'Back to Black' by the magnificent Amy Winehouse. ("Sans mauvais jeux de mots", as the French put it)._

_The Muggle board game 'Carcassonne' technically appeared in 2000, but I'd like to think that a more complicated (and political) Wizarding version exists since ages._

_Lucy's family background merges with my friend Hirfael's stories (in fact, our HP fics take place in the same universe, given that some of our characters are related). Anything and everything about the Corbitt clan belongs to Hirfael, respectively._

_**Thank you for having read this far. Please tell me what you think!**_


	5. In Mendacium

**NOTE:**_ my upcoming summer adventures will not allow me to respect the promised 12__th__/21__st__ updating schedule (that's why this one came early, for instance). I'll keep updating rhapsodically until September. From that point on, everything should go back to normal._

* * *

**29 December 1995**

_Dear Sirius Black,_

_Stop reading my diary above my shoulder. You're not that subtle._

_Yes, this is a diary._

_No, it's not about you._

_Well, okay. I sometimes do write about you. Mostly calling you an asshole._

…_NO, YOU CAN'T READ IT._

. .

Dear Diary,

Ignore Sirius, he just discovered your existence. I have no time to worry about it right now.

Well, here I am at 25, talking to an empty stack of paper. If it's not the end of the world…

. .

SOME UPDATES

\- Still serving my sentence _you-know-where_. Tent's packed up, and all. Long story.

\- Met my aunt and uncle on the 27th, as requested. Everyone survived and Gringotts is still standing. You can call it a success.

\- Not a hobo anymore. Got my own place, and not some tiny flat – an entire _house!_

\- Haven't seen said house yet, because Lucius Malfoy is doing his best to find some fault in the papers. Come to think of it, he can suck a certain part of anatomy I don't possess.

\- I should be getting up, but it's just so cosy here. As cosy as_ you-know-where_ can get, I suppose. Sirius's posters are making me a bit self-conscious, though. Do Muggle girls _generally _have bigger tits than us, or is it just the angle?

. .

Let's get back to 27 December, anyhow. Wednesday. Calm and very cold. Snow everywhere.

I got up early, told Sirius that I wanted to have a bath and sneaked downstairs to leave as quickly as I could. Not even the house-elf noticed me. I was real proud of myself.

Now that I think of it, I haven't seen the sorry thing for quite some time now.

Anyway – I was walking along the corridor. I could already see the door, just a few steps away; and then Sirius, this sneaky asshole grabs me from behind and whispers _"Goin' somewhere, princess?"_ in my ear quite venomously. It happened so suddenly that I shrieked, so the portrait of his Mum woke up and told us what filthy blood traitor scum we were, just in case we'd forgotten. Apparently, we've levelled up now, because we're also _"living in sin"_.

That particular insult worked Sirius up pretty much, and as per usual, he took it all out on me. He accused me of _"surely seein' someone else, the cheeky Veela you are"._ So _I_ worked myself up, too, and I called him this and that. Just the usual stuff. I broke his favourite whiskey glass and it was pretty awful.

I'm sure that the Weasleys heard us, but pretended that they haven't, you know.

. .

Eventually, I had to tell Sirius that I was about to meet my relatives_. _I hoped that would calm him, but nope. He continued to lash out at me like _"you don't trust me with shit, and that's not fair, I always tell you what's going on",_ which is totally not true, by the way.

I was so _strained_ that I burst into tears like a stupid toddler... and after a full minute of standing awkwardly and not talking, his social skills kicked in. Never knew he had those.

He suddenly became quite decent – kissed the top of my head, cradled me in his arms, that kind of thing. But he just wouldn't stop with the bloody questions, so I figured I had no choice but to tell him what was bothering me and all. That is to say, I had to do a briefing on my _family._

It's just that my Objectively Emotionless Account somehow turned into a lament on _How My Family Despised Me,_ and _How Unfair It Was._

Not that Sirius wouldn't get it.

. .

In fact, to truly understand where I am now and how I got there, it might be useful to record said lament in writing, too. You could say it's stupid, but Remus tells me that sometimes you need to "get things out of your system", so I figured I could try.

Watch out for the ink patches and crossed-out paragraphs, though, because I'll be writing _decently_ from now on. Queen's English and all – I mean, with the occasional _'fuck'_ and _'cunt'_. You know how it goes.

. .

So,

LUCY'S LAMENTATIONS, vol. 1.

Everything begins with _the root cause of my Dad's general resentment towards my person _(oi, dat phrase!) – which is, I think, the fact that when the Death Eaters came knocking in '81, ten-year-old me survived and my Mum didn't.

And when I say that, I don't mean to shout at the devil. I _genuinely_ think that I kind of ruined Dad's life even further that day... and sometimes, when I drink too much, I'm _genuinely_ sorry for it, too, even if my primary instinct is to feel thankful that I'm alive.

It's hard to explain without making my Dad come off as an absolute monster, but I don't think he is one... See, he loved Mum very much, to the point of complete adoration; and I don't think he was ever allowed to live his grief when she died, because of, well, _me_. I still remember how everyone tried to console him saying _"you haven't lost everything… you still have a daughter…" _and he couldn't go _"well, who gives a fuck?"_ because _noblesse oblige_ and all that.

Of course he lost everything. Mum was his everything and he lost _her, _so that qualifies as losing everything, doesn't it? I don't know if he even _wanted_ me. Never asked. Anyway, I turned out to be the kind of big-mouthed, rebellious kid he sure as hell never wanted, and the fact that I wasn't wanted made me even more rebellious. Because… you know the things Dads do – like, _talk to you? Spend time with you? Throw the occasional Boggart out of your cupboard? Threaten to hex your boyfriend if he ever gets naughty…?_ Well, my Dad never really did any of those things. He has always been awkward around me, and cold, and reserved, and stuff like that, as if he was afraid to get too attached. I'm not saying that he is solely responsible for me being generally awkward, cold and reserved around people and not wanting to get too attached, but let's say he played his part.

So that's John Dawlish for you. Senior Auror, Order of Merlin III and so forth. Never met a more boring, more thick-headed, more insufferable josser. See, it's enough to start talking about him to get me all worked up again. Granted, I don't think he's the devil but I actually _am_ very cross with him. We're not even on casual speaking terms. I barely say _hello_ when I meet him in the Ministry.

. .

For the sake of justice, I must also mention that I was the worst sort of neglected, attention-seeking kid, and as a teenager, I did my utmost to make Dad's life hard. Like in Fifth Year, when I thought it would be a really good idea to elope to New York with Myron Wagtail – my then-boyfriend – the week before our OWL-s. And that's where Aunt Rowan and Uncle Percival came into the picture.

Let's play a situation game: _I've skipped off Hogwarts, and you are my Dad. What do you do?_

_a) Contact my Headmaster or Head of House, inquiring about me first._

_b) Try and contact me directly._

_c) Go look for me yourself with a Ludo Bagman-look on your face._

_d) Heat up your long-estranged bonds with my Mum's distant family – as in: the head of the U.S. Magical Law Enforcement and his wife – and design a MACUSA manhunt for me._

Hmm. I don't know. Which of these seems a sensible option for you?

. .

The MACUSA got me easily, and I was dragged into Woolworth to be questioned, because as it happens, our little trip with Myron made us illegal immigrants in the US. So that's how I met my great aunt and uncle for the first time, at 16. Through the glass of a bloody prison parlour. Suffice to say, we couldn't exactly appreciate the _sparkle of kinship_ Dumbledore was talking about when he finally appeared and saved the day. No sparkle for me, I suppose…

Yeah. It was, in fact, not my Dad but _Dumbledore_ who got me out of custody, brought me back to school and pushed me through my OWL-s. I won't forget that... That's why I've agreed to work for him in the first place.

...so I told Sirius all this, and for once, he listened without calling me daft or anything. It somehow felt _right._

. .

I might have already mentioned that Sirius Black was a stubborn person. And not only that. I'm positive that he has the thickest skull in the entire universe.

Thing is, he categorically refused to let me out of the house alone, since _"that fucker in the hat might still be following you",_ and _"the attack on Arthur might have been meant for you, you shouldn't forget that",_ and _"I won't sit here on my arse knowing that you could get killed in any minute"_.

Well. I think you can already see where this was going – he high-handedly decided that he would be coming with me. He wasn't taking _no_ as an answer... And I know it's terribly selfish of me, but I gave in. Because, how do I put it… Sirius has a certain _allure_ when he's being assertive. I like it. I like that he's having none of your shit, and you can't really bend his will.

He's not perfect – far from it – quite a bit rash and moody, downright _rude_ sometimes… but if you bother to dig through all his layers of _fuck you _and _I don't care,_ you realize that he has a good heart. And that's not something you get every day.

. .

So yeah. Sirius was coming with me. But I had to disguise him first, so I grabbed a Witch Weekly from a few issues ago and chose the first photo that I liked. It was a page-sized quiz thing: you had to pair the names of famous wizards with pictures from their youth.

I found this dreamy-looking guy with wavy blonde hair and mismatched eyes. He was so pretty that I thought it was a painting, at first. I was in a real hurry, so I didn't even check who it was. Anyway, I did my best to morph Sirius into that man, but I had no time for the mismatched eyes, so I just kept his own.

. .

The bastard has _dreamy_ eyes, by the way. Clear grey, almost _silver,_ like whirls of mist in a snowstorm.

(Took me minutes to come up with that metaphor).

I think they go well with blonde hair, too. Two silver stars.

Uh… where was I again?

* * *

We were supposed to meet my aunt and uncle in the Goblin's Gallows for lunch, at two. Diagon Alley. Ground level of Gringotts, right on the corner.

You could say that the 'Gallows is everything I hate in a nutshell. You walk in, and everything's made of marble, rosewood and so forth. Eating there for a week could cost you more than a particularly bad turn on the World Poker Tour…

Director Ragnuk owns the place on paper, but Gnarlak is the one who knows the drill. I'm _positive_ that all the employees are spying for him. I imagine they'd have quite the information to offer on chaps like Corban Yaxley or Lucius Malfoy – known Death Eaters who like to pay their weekly homage of _Look At Me I'm Stinking Rich _there…

. .

We Flooed to the Leaky Cauldron and walked through to Diagon Alley; and I realised that I had absolutely no clue how I was supposed to act in a snobbish shithole like the 'Gallows. I haven't been _conditioned_ to do that. So there I was, freaking out in the middle of the street. I mean, you can see the situation: there's Sirius, protected by nothing but my magic from being recognised and carried off to fucking Azkaban... and _I'm_ the one to freak out…

He was _so nice_ with me for once, though – took me by the arm like a gentleman, and he was like, _"No worries, princess. Just smile and be pretty. Think you can do that?"_

Me: _"Smile and be pretty. Right."_

Him: _"Oh yeah. And try not to say 'fuck' and stuff, you know."_

Me (dutifully): _"Smile and be pretty and don't say fuck."_

Him: _"You're a natural."_

. .

As soon as we entered the 'Gallows, we were stopped by a Goblin valet who asked if we had a table reserved. I mumbled something indistinctly, and Sirius said in a calm reassuring voice that we were here on _"a due meeting with Mr and Mrs Graves". _He handed our coats over as if that was the most natural thing in the world (I forgot my wand, so I needed to take mine back super awkwardly for a moment). Anyway – we got a remote table that was cut off from the rest of the hall with a folding screen. Sirius called for a Firewhiskey _("double, three ice cubes, thank you very much")_ and ordered me a lemonade before I could have even uttered the word _spirit_.

Then he draws the folding screen in an inch, mutters a quick _Muffliato,_ grins at me above the table, and he goes, _"Heads up, princess – your Swiss aristocrat boyfriend is here to save the day."_

Me: _"My WHAT?!"_

Him (unfazed): _"Guess I can still do the accent. Name's, let's say, Geoffroy de… huh. I don't know. Geoffroy-de-quelque-chose. I'll make something up on the way. You can call me Geoff."_

Me: _"That's weird."_

Him: _"Yeah – and even more importantly: it's posh. You'll get the hang of it."_

Well, _he_ got the hang of it for sure. When our drinks arrived, he snapped his fingers like a _genuine_ rich twat and he was like, _"Everything's on me, yes? And then some. Vault 711." _The Goblin just nodded and left us, and I suddenly felt like I was going to explode; but _he_ just snorted, and told me that he'd bought Harry a new racing broom in '94 while he was on death row in six countries, and the Goblins didn't bat an eye.

Well – if you ask me, they actually _did _bat an eye, and the information had been sold at a price that could buy me another estate. It's just that someone paid more than Fudge, so he never got it… I made a mental note to destroy all account on that particular transaction, but I didn't have much time to think about it, because my aunt and uncle arrived shortly. Quite the expectations they must have had of me...!

The last time we'd met, I was this baby-faced 16-year-old – obnoxious, loud, sarcastic, using four-letter words like commas. (Not much changed, in that respect). But now here I was, a bank clerk… tight tweed dress, pale rosy lipstick and shit. I was hiding my real face just as much as Sirius was, and I thought that for bloody once, I had a chance to make things right; so I promised myself that for the rest of the day, I would do my best to Smile, Be Pretty and Not Say Fuck.

Needless to say, it didn't always work out. But I shouldn't go jumping forward like that.

. .

My relatives haven't changed at all – they were still powerful-looking elderly people. Uncle Percival still somewhat handsome (although he might be Dumbledore's age, or so), and Aunt Rowan still somewhat charming, with green eyes that shone out of her face like little lanterns. They must be great people if you know them well; but at first sight, they seem as posh and intimidating as humanly possible.

We both stood up – I forced my "hello"-s out weakly, and Sirius flashed a smile, kissed Aunt Rowan's hand in a Trademark Posh Way, then shook hands with my Uncle. And he goes, _"Monsieur Graves, it's such an honour – I know I'm being inappropriate, and this meeting is not about me at all, but I'm so excited to meet you, sir; I've heard so much about you from Mademoiselle here…"_

Me (trying not to crack up): _"Aunt, Uncle, this is Geoff – I mean, Geoffroy, my…" _

Sirius (tilting his head): _"I believe the appropriate term would be 'compagnon', or perhaps 'not-so-secret admirer'."_

He presented himself on some mazy French name he'd must have made up right on the spot. It was quality acting, really – I couldn't quite understand why my aunt and uncle both stared at him as if they'd seen a ghost. After some cringy silence, though, Uncle Percival clears his throat, and he's like, _"Austria?" _And Sirius goes, _"Suisse de l'Ouest, s'il vous plaît," (_and I catch a breath, because damn, that fake Swiss accent is _sexy)_.

. .

For the next twenty minutes or so, we gave an impressive demonstration of small talk _(capricious weather; new Floo network regulations; the Ministry's educational directives; rapidly changing Gringotts rates)_ while our lunch was served. It was so telling – the way we exchanged glances, the way we kept any mention of You-Know-Who and his rumoured return out of the conversation, the way we stayed on the surface of any topic.

Still, talking about insignificant shit helped us all relax a bit, and with that relaxation came my chance to attempt Legilimency. Not dead on, of course… just _slightly._ It's not like you have a switch in your head that allows you to navigate between ears and mind, and it's not like you lose your physical hearing once you're doing Legilimency, either.

It's a bit like doing meth, actually. Your brain loads all impressions within an instant, and things don't make sense for a while, but suddenly, they all _crystallize_ in your brain and you feel like a god. _That_ was the sort of Legilimency I could do without a wand or a specific purpose; and it helped me understand the following:

\- Neither Aunt Rowan nor Uncle Percival gave a single fuck about the weather, or Gringotts, or our Ministry.

\- They were constantly alarmed by Sirius's presence for some reason.

\- They were hiding something from me (especially my aunt).

\- This was not a chance meeting – they have come to England specifically to see _me _(again: especially my aunt).

I could feel her thoughts whirling under the surface of her mind, and I couldn't help but _look_. Looking doesn't mean _seeing,_ though (there's a piece of Centaur lore for you) and I was hit by an avalanche of memories without sense – which I hereby record as accurately as possible.

"…_I don't know what to do, Grandmother," said a shadow in a tall mirror. "I don't understand what I'm seeing. One day, she fishes for gold in the ditches of Knockturn Alley; and the next day, the Minister helps her tweed coat on, and she looks like a queen…"_

…_there was an opening in a dark forest: a clearing cut by nature, as if with some giant filleting knife. In the deep valley underneath, there was a fortress, and she walked in…_

"…_why, young lady?" Aunt Rowan was sitting behind a table, looking at sixteen-year-old me through wand-proof glass. "Why did you do it? I can only help you if you tell me what happened." I looked up at her, then turned away without a single word..._

…_two hands hung entwined in an inferno of blue flames, and there was a shadow on the other side… a man… and he was turning back…_

Next thing I knew, both I and Aunt Rowan were standing, and yelling at each other at the top of our lungs. Her, like _"…get out of my head! I SAID, GET OUT!"; _and me, like _"IT WAS YOU! ALL THE TIME, IT WAS YOU! YOU SPIED ON ME!"_

Both Sirius and my Uncle looked quite ready to draw their wands, but my Aunt collected herself and sat back in her chair. And she's like, suddenly calm, _"No surprise, of course. You're just like him."_

Me: _"Like who?"_

Her: _"My brother, Reynard. Your grandfather. He is a Legilimens, too."_

Me: _"What? I'm not – wait, why hasn't anyone told me about that?!"_

Her: _"Our family is very reserved about it."_

Me: _"Reserved, is that it? Because spying on me, that's the definition of 'reserved'!"_

My voice was rising again. My Uncle said that I had no right speak to Aunt Rowan like that, and _I_ said that I spoke the way I damn well pleased.

At this point, Sirius loudly requested a bottle of _"something dry and red, please",_ and told the serving Goblin that he would_ "greatly appreciate"_ if they could carry on with Stravinsky in the background. So I raised my eyes to see a blurred sea of faces turning quickly away from us. In the back of the hall, the band _did_ resume Stravinsky if you've been wondering, and I suddenly felt like I wanted to die.

Uncle Percival's lips froze into a thin, straight line, but Sirius – again – saved the day by his flawless pretence of _Everything's Okay, Thank You Very Much_. He drained the rest of his whiskey, smoothed a tress of hair behind my ear, and looked expectantly at me, like, _"Mademoiselle, I think this would be the moment to use the A-word. You know."_

The first thing to come into my mind was _'asshole'_, but thankfully, I was able to find an alternative. I _apologized, _explaining that I was trying to be subtle with the mind-reading thing, it's just that you never know with people…

"_I can't force anything specific out of your minds, though,"_ I said. _"I'm no real Legilimens."_ Then I took a shaky breath, surprised at my own sincerity. _"Was he? My – my Granddad, I mean."_

"_He is,"_ said Uncle Percival. He still looked somewhat _grave,_ but at least no one was shouting anymore. When wine was served, he waved it away and ordered a cup of chocolate _("dark, with a whiff of Firewhiskey")_ to which Sirius said, _"Fine taste, monsieur"_; and they exchanged this _almost friendly_ look over the table.

All in all, the atmosphere was ready to be fucked up again.

"_The guy in the hat,"_ I said sharply. _"The one who kept following me all the time. Did you send him, too?"_

"_Yes,"_ said Aunt Rowan. I asked _why;_ so she looked me in the eye and she said, _"For the same reason I've been trying to look after you since we've first met. Because you're family."_

I felt some dangerous heat rising in my chest, the same kind of heat I usually feel before I fuck shit up. _"I'm not a family person," _I said icily,_ "so do enlighten me… how exactly does sharing my blood give you the right to spy on me?" _(There, Sirius squeezed my shoulder, quite _visibly,_ and I took a deep breath). _"I mean… we've met only once, and not under the best circumstances. I probably owe you an apology, by the way… but it's been seven years! Why would you suddenly decide that you care about me, after all – what happens to me… where I go… the people I meet…"_

My voice was outright VICIOUS now, and I squeezed my wine glass as if it was one of those stress-balls, you know. Aunt Rowan looked oddly hurt, but Uncle Percival just narrowed his eyes and asked, _"Are you used to being followed?"_ And I was like, _"Not necessarily, but I can recognize when I am."_

Him: _"Not necessarily?"_

Me: "_Look – I've been travelling with a curse-breaker for five years. I'm not telling you that I've never got into trouble. But being followed all through London has gotten on my nerves lately. I mean, if you're asking for news, you could always send me an owl…"_

"_And would you tell us if you needed help?" _Aunt Rowan snapped. _"Would you bother to tell us anything else than 'I'm fine, thank you'?"_

There was a LONG, cringy silence; then Sirius quipped, _"Make no mistake, Madame – she could be livin' under a bridge with a bunch of sans-abris, hiding from the Magical Gouvernance every day; and say, pas de problème. Nice of you to inquire..."_

"_You're not being helpful!"_ I snapped, but that wasn't true. He was being IMMENSELY helpful, offering something that I never knew he had in himself: some easy comic relief, some impressive ability to act like everything was okay. And he was not only helpful, but _right,_ of course. _Hell,_ I never really tell anyone what's going on with me…

"_Thought as much," _said Aunt Rowan in a strange, stern-but-light tone. _"And that is why we're here today. Lucy, your Grandfather and I happen to share the opinion that your current Hyde Park residence leaves much to be desired. Wouldn't you agree?"_

For a moment, I could only stare stupidly at her. I was mortified to the BONE. I couldn't even imagine what a_ disgusting_ gold-digger I must have looked like with the fake Swiss Boyfriend on my side… my job in the bank… and the tent… and she knew about Knockturn Alley and all…

I got to tell you that I had to swallow some bile _right there_. You didn't need Legilimency to find out what was going on in my head, though, so my Uncle said, in an extremely discreet and reserved tone:

"_Rowan was worried about you – we both were – and we thought it was not yet too late to offer you the kind of support you have always been deprived of. You are not alone. You have a family – a name. You are not only a Dawlish, but a Corbitt, too, like your mother and your grandfather. You have a place to go."_

"_And for that reason,"_ Aunt Rowan added, _"Reynard and I thought that the Corbitts' ancient family home should be given over to you."_

I would have probably been less surprised if she had turned into a winged pink unicorn or exploded into an avalanche of Bertie's Botts. So I'm like, "_You travelled this far just to give me a house…?!"_ And my Uncle explained that it was an old mansion that lived through all kinds of wars and so forth, and that it was still protected by enchantments that I wouldn't be able to break without him.

I thanked them, somewhat confusedly, and told them I couldn't accept such a gift because in a few months, I'd be able to buy my own place. Aunt Rowan said that she knew I could (and I'm actually positive she told me the truth), but she insisted that I should have the Corbitt house, after all._ "You really need to stop thinking you're a bad person, Lucy," _she said, and I wished she would stop looking at me like she _cared,_ because why would she…?

Well-well. If I couldn't only stare at her like a stupid fucking cow. Then Sirius drew his familiar Enraged Sharp Breath, and I knew that as soon as we were on our own again, I would need to do some quality explaining.

. .

The rest of the afternoon was full of unpleasant surprises. I'll make you a list:

One: Turns out that Gnarlak and Uncle Percival are age-old enemies. Seriously, we hopped into his office to do the paperwork, they saw each other, and the North Pole froze back again.

Two: The current Head of the Magical Heritage Committee – the guy who is supposed to endorse the paperwork for my new house – is none else than Lucius Malfoy. Trust a Death Eater to brighten your day!

Three: Aforementioned Lucius Malfoy was there all the way long while we signed the papers and he questioned Sirius on his family background, as if he _knew_ we were bullshitting everyone. But how could he prove that there is no Geoffroy de _what-was-it_ AT ALL? He can't do that, right? RIGHT?!

Four: The Corbitts have quite _unorthodox_ views when it comes to the safeguarding of their family vault. The Lestranges have dragons, the Malfoys have the Thief's Downfall… and the Corbitts have a Dementor. A bloody _Dementor._ Consequently, the Patronus Charm is kind of the first thing that the Corbitts learn, so they could have their coin, you know. Seems like I'm genuinely unfit to be related to them, because I can't, for the life of me, do a corporeal Patronus. I just _can't_.

When we got to the vault, I made a complete fool of myself. I couldn't even _raise_ my wand… I could only think of the fact that I was a complete and utter failure for my family. Pathetic… so the Dementor kind of _lashed out_ at me immediately.

…Sirius to the rescue. And what does he do?! Like, _magic_ or something…? Nah, that would have been too easy, eh?

Oh, _Merlin_. You should've seen it. This fucking invalid JUMPS FORWARD and GRABS the Dementor with his BARE HANDS – I insist, he PHYSICALLY GRABS the thing, rotting fingers and dark hood and all, and he THROWS IT OFF ME then YANKS IT BACK into the darkness, like, WHOOSH, MOTHERFUCKER!

Then, he suddenly remembers he's still supposed to be Swiss, so he's like, _completely_ unfazed, _"Such a peste, those creatures. Je les déteste"; _and my aunt goes, all softly under her breath, _"wow."_ And my uncle gets all snappy for some unfathomable reason.

. .

I can't even imagine how horrible it must have been for Sirius to see one of those depressing shitclouds again. We haven't talked about it afterwards. _I_ sure as hell won't bring it up. But the fact that he was able to TOUCH a Dementor is somewhat disconcerting.

. .

My aunt and uncle promised they would owl me as soon as the paperwork was done, so the whole meeting thing ended on a positive note. At least I _felt like_ it did, until we rounded a bend in Diagon Alley with Sirius – now on our own again – and he gave me his _Girl-You're-So-Screwed_ kind of look.

Clearly, he would go for a frontal attack. ("_So what is this Hyde Park Residence thing again you never bothered to tell me about?")_

Me (lamely): _"Nothing…"_

Him: _"If you didn't have a flat – but you DID have a flat, and a landlord, as far as I know…"_

Me: _"I no longer live there, you know – sudden thing, I had to move out…"_

Him: _"Out – where?"_

Me: _"Just – here and there, you know."_

Him: _?  
_

Me: _"Okay, so I'm staying at Remus's, sometimes. And Dora's. And the Leaky Cauldron. And…"_

Him: _"Are you fucking kidding me?!"_

Me (vigorously): _"Siri…"_

Him: _"Don't fucking Siri me, woman! Why haven't you just TOLD ME?! What on BLOODY EARTH do I need to do for you to trust me?! Rescuing you from a vampire's lair? Tick! Throwing a raging werewolf into a river so it wouldn't eat you?! Tick! Obliviating your Dad?! Double tick, GOD DAMN IT…!"_

Me:_ …_

Him: _"Just tell me why. Why would you hide such a thing from me? You could be hurt. You could be robbed. You could be – I don't know…"_

Me (suddenly angry): _"And haven't it crossed your ingenious mind that I was – I don't know – ashamed…"_

Him: _"Ashamed of – what? Merlin's bloody… Lucy Dawlish, don't tell me that you have been livin' off the streets because I'm going to… I don't know what I'm going to do, but you won't fucking thank me."_

If I could choose between being there and being anywhere else (Azkaban, and Nurmengard, and the downmost depths of hell included), I'd have chosen ANYWHERE ELSE without a second thought. I felt like crying… like running away… like hexing the hell out of him. I swallowed hard, and I said (very quietly): _"I didn't want you to think that it was all about having a place to go. Me and you. Because… because it wasn't. It isn't. I didn't want you to think that I…"_ I bit my lip. _"That I was taking advantage of you. I'm not. I'd rather… I don't know. There are a lot of horrible things I'd rather do."_

It was as close to a confession as I would ever get, and he knew it. _I knew that he knew_ – he stared at me in the same way he had stared at me over the table in a downlit lounge in Transylvania a few months ago, the day he had waded into my life and decided that he wouldn't leave.

So yeah. I think I might have just admitted right then and there that this was more than the occasional shagging… that we had something… that I _did _trust him, after all… you know, that kind of thing.

But then a chamber pot fell off a high window-sill right next to us, followed by the cackle of children and a very dazzled-looking blue cat; and we realized that we were still out in the open, that Sirius was still on death row in six countries and that we had to leave, like, _real_ quickly.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

_\- Rowan Graves_ is my friend Hirfael's OC – in fact, our HP stories take place in the same universe, and some of our characters are related; although the main happenings of her side of the story occur in her _**'Relic Hunters'**_**.** Be sure to check out her profile and works! :) The Corbitt family, in its entirety (along with the vault-guarding Dementor) is an artistic "propriety" of Hirfael.

_\- "The guy in the hat," _alias Titus Graves gives us his two cents on Lucy's Knockturn Alley adventures in Hirfael's_ 'Tales of the Graves',_ chapter four. _( s/13301915/4/Tales-of-the-Graves)_

**Thank you for reading this far! Let me know if you liked this (or if you didn't).**


	6. Personal Investments

**30 December 1995**

Time's slipping away. Only four days to go and I'll have my own house, can you imagine that…?

It'll do me good. My brain knows that it's past time I took some distance from Sirius, but if there's no pushing factor, I'm afraid I'll never do it.

. .

Earlier this evening, Remus and I played Exploding Snap with the kids, and we accidentally set the Black family tapestry on fire. Ron Weasley was like _"blimey, look, everyone's disowned_", and we all cracked up like crazy. And then that nosy Muggleborn girl (I always forget the name; will scratch this out if it comes back to me) anyway, _she_ says, all self-consciously, _"I hope Sirius won't be pissed off about it,"_ and then Ron's like "_nah, I think he'd probably piss IT off_."

And there we went again, practically _howling_ with laughter. Here's to a likeable generation!

. .

After dinner, though, I decided to set the bloody thing right. Not because Sirius would get sleepless nights over it or anything, but rather because of, well, _Kreacher._ I don't need him bothering Sirius again. He's unsettled enough as he is, now that Christmas is over and everyone's leaving… Anyway – I solved the tapestry-problem, and I was just about to leave when I noticed Kreacher's medallion once again. It was locked inside a vitrine in the far end of the room – and that's where we'd found it first, too, before Sirius tossed it into a trash-bag. Kreacher must have placed it back into the exact same position as it was before. _Why?_

I had half the mind to open the vitrine and have a look on that ugly golden thing, but my Sherlocking was interrupted by Harry. He hesitated in front of the door. He knew I was in there and I knew he was out there, so we both spent a very stupid ten seconds waiting, I suppose. He then came in and asked me if I had a minute. I said yes, of course – I had this mild irrational fear that he was going to ask me about my Patronus again, so I guess I was weirdly relieved when he said, _in medias res_ –

"_Sirius tells me you're good at this mind control thing."_

Me: _"You mean, Occlumency?"_

Him: _"I guess…? You know, I've had that vision about Mr Weasley. I mean, I saw him being attacked in my dream, while it was happening. No one knows how this is possible… or it's just that no one bothers to tell me... Anyway, Mad-Eye said something the other day about Vol – I mean, You-Know-Who possessing me…"_

I reminded Harry that Mad-Eye also said things about people Vanishing their asses by keeping their wands in their hip-pockets, but it didn't really make a difference. Then I jokingly asked him if he was concerned more about his ass or his mind, but Harry just said _"Both, I s'ppose,"_ like, _dead serious, _and I knew something was really off. And then he goes, _"Can you look into my head, or something, and tell me if I was being possessed or not? I mean… I want to know if it's possible. In case it happens again. You know. If – if it's not too much trouble."_

_If it's not too much trouble,_ he said. Merlin's ass.

I was so taken aback that I stared stupidly at him until the curiosity on his face turned into mortification. Then, I had to grab Harry James Potter by the arm, and turn him around, and explain that people didn't normally let other people in their heads.

(Such an adorable kid. I ask him if he could trust me with that kind of thing, and he's like, _"Well, Sirius said I could,"_ in a slightly surprised tone, as if _Sirius Said _was some kind of divine enunciation).

. .

So I had to bring back a specific memory, dissect it, and look for the signs of possession.

Of course, things would've been much easier if I had any idea just _what_ the signs of possession were.

Ronan always told me that I was smart enough to overcomplicate things, dumb enough to drive myself in face of unsolved enigmas, and eccentric enough to keep chewing on those enigmas nonetheless… and I think he wasn't entirely wrong.

The safest route would have been to flat-out refuse Harry, as the whole experiment was about as irresponsible as your experiment can get… but I didn't wanna let the kid down. He's the Boy Who Lived, after all. And I think he's cute.

. .

I told Harry that I was going to enter his mind first – just the surface –, and then he was going to enter mine to get the hang of things. Probably not the easiest way to get down to it, but if your first experience with mind control is bad, you're going to suck at it.

Yeah. Well… wandering around Harry's head turned out to be a REALLY bad idea. It's hard to recall what I saw, but I'll try for the sake of documentation:

…_Harry is sitting behind a desk in a horrible room: pink walls, doilies and china plates everywhere. Dolores Umbridge is standing above him. Harry is writing the same sentence over and over with a strange, large quill: "I Must Not Tell Lies". The edges of the paper are stained with blood…_

…_Harry is running through a forest with two shadows on his side – Ron and Hermione… They're fleeing breathlessly from some faint green gleam. It filters through the shroud from the skies…_

…_An enormous, purple-faced man is __hollering insults at him…_

"…_you are a great wizard, Harry," says a very __young__ Hermione. She's sitting on something that looks like a giant, wrecked chessboard…_

…_Harry is walking through the corridor in the Department of Mysteries…_

Wait, what?

I lost my focus at that point; and when you lose focus while doing Legilimency, you have a very good chance to find yourself back in your own head, along with the subject of your examination.

…_Dumbledore and I are standing on top of the Astronomy Tower, looking down on a pair of Thestrals as they glide over the forest below us. "I can't do it, Professor," I mutter. "They're going to give me the boot." Dumbledore looks down on me (he seems terribly tall from that angle), and he takes his hat down, placing it on the balustrade. "Again," he says. "See what you can do with this." And he hands me his own wand…_

"…_such a shame," says my Dad over his desk at the Ministry. "What were you thinking, running off like that? But that is what you have always been doing, haven't you? Letting people down without a second thought! Disappointing people… Where did I go wrong? When did you become such a freak, I wonder…?"_

…_Sirius is kneeling half-naked in a river; I'm washing his wounds and stitching him up but he continues swearing like there's no tomorrow. The water is becoming deep red…_

…I Occluded, and we were back in reality as abruptly as we'd left it. Harry stared at me with an odd expression on his face, asking, _"What happened to Sirius?"_

Me:_ "He is an idiot, that's what happened to him."_

Harry: _"Was that in Transylvania…? Dung tells stories about that mission all the time… how he was terribly injured, and how you guys barely escaped alive, and stuff…"_

I kept a very straight face and told him to ask his godfather.

It only occurs to me now that it was a _very_ bad idea.

. .

ADDENDUM: It's time to clarify a few things about _The Transylvania Fiasco,_ as we call it. Plenty of rumours and misconceptions around… give it a few years, and it will become one of those legendary Order missions everyone claims to have participated at, but no one actually remembers.

Again: for the sake of documentation, I'll give you –

**The Transylvania Mission Endgame**

_A Tragicomedy in Four Acts_

_(family-friendly version)_

Act One: LUCY and REMUS are trapped in a VAMPIRE'S CASTLE by BARTY CROUCH JR and his BUDDIES.

Act Two: LUCY has a NARROW ESCAPE back into the VILLAGE, without her WAND; where she GETS ACQUAINTED with SIRIUS and after some UNIMPORTANT and ENTIRELY INNOCENT COMPLICATIONS they TEAM UP.

Act Three: LUCY and SIRIUS rescue REMUS from a SHADY DUNGEON but are SOMEWHAT RESTRAINED by (1) the VAMPIRE and (2) the FACT that it is a FULL MOON'S NIGHT.

Act Four: (meanwhile) MUNDUNGUS is PLAYING POKER in the CASTLE'S HALL, which is his idea of DISTRACTING the BAD GUYS. He CHEATS and a FIGHT ensues, in which MUNDUNGUS loses one of his TEETH to ELDRED WORPLE – his greatest SACRIFICE for the ORDER.

. .

There you go. If you want the Explicit Version, ask one of the boys. You'll have three different Versions depending on who you ask. Degree of accuracy may vary.

. .

…back to us.

Now that Harry was a little bit more at ease, I entered his mind again, openly searching for the memory in question. We watched together as You-Know-Who's giant snake slid through a tunnel. Harry was right, it didn't feel like a dream – no, it was a _memory_.

I didn't even notice anything weird at first. The snake sniffed around, found Arthur, bit him and everything was gone with a flash. I went back to the beginning, then halfway back again, and again… and when I did that for the third time, it occurred to me that Harry's memory didn't look like a proper memory at all. It felt like watching a Muggle movie cut together from different angles. As if there were more than one pair of eyes watching… but that was _impossible…_

I flashed back to the beginning once again, trying to find the moment when I first got wind of some strange intruding presence…

Next thing I know, Harry's screaming in pain.

I think it was his scar.

_Bollocks_.

Words can't describe how _terrified_ I was. Like, _what if I fucked up Harry Potter's brain, or something?!_ Logical Me knew it was impossible but Concerned Me continued to insist that I was the biggest fucking idiot on the entire planet.

Anyway – I immediately withdrew from Harry's mind, then I conjured a block of ice and pressed it to his forehead. I couldn't think of anything else. His cheeks were hot, as if he had fever or something, but his skin didn't redden. He was pale as a ghost.

I told him that it was okay _(no, it wasn't),_ that things like this would occasionally happen _(no, they wouldn't), _that he just had to breathe slowly, through his nose, and he was going to get better _(okay, that was a safe bet)._ Harry kept nodding along with everything I said, and he seemed at least as embarrassed with me soothing him as I felt with trying to soothe him. Then the door swinged open – enter Sirius, ready to murder me if I did anything bad to his godson (a second later, though, we were consoling Harry together).

I was starting to make sense of what I had seen, and I told the boy that You-Know-Who had possessed the snake, not him; and that he'd seen everything from the point of view of the snake because he'd been in You-Know-Who's head. Harry asked if I was sure about that, and I said _yes. _So he thanked me super awkwardly. And when we heard Mrs Weasley's call for dinner, he practically _jumped_ on the opportunity.

I was about to tell Sirius that I had kind of lied, but he thanked me, too; and he sounded so relieved that I held my tongue. He's is so _strained_ nowadays… and he worries about Harry enough as it is. You can call it lying, and maybe it makes me a bad person, but I just didn't wanna work Sirius all up again.

I will investigate, though... read a few books on mental possession, write to some of my shadier acquaintances, that kind of thing. Because something is not okay here. Your brain is supposed to be a lonely place, even if you're not controlling it. Switching your point of view WITHIN a memory is decidedly _not_ normal.

Might be one of You-Know-Who's dark fuckeries. Maybe a full-fledged illusion thing. I don't even know if that exists… but if I was a Dark Witch, I'd _definitely _work on my illusions.

. .

Oh, and… it might be because of the fright, but I'd completely forgotten about that memory with Umbridge and the bloodstained parchment. WHAT THE HELL?! What is that woman even doing?!

Guess I'll need to launch a _thorough_ investigation once I'll be back at Hogwarts.

. .

What's a LOT more important, anyway: Sirius stayed with me for several more minutes in that room while the others were gathering for dinner downstairs. He held me in his arms as if we were a real couple or something. I'd really like to have a sneak peek into his head, to see if he's just shagging me or if he actually fancies… you know…_ my person_…

My logic tells me that he's made far too much _personal investment_ already, as Remus calls it. But I've been promised a million things a million times by a million people and look at me… still single and mildly alcoholic.

I just don't wanna read things too far.

* * *

**31 December 1995**

Never told you about Dora and me before. Shame!

We're a dream team, I'll have you know. Me: a Gryffindor; her: a Hufflepuff and two years my junior… but at Hogwarts, we've still been thick as thieves. And now that we're both in the Order, it's like we've never parted ways.

. .

Dora is, like, all the girly friends you've ever wanted to have. AT ONCE.

You can get drunk with her.

You can steal cars and break into shops with her (less now that she's an Auror, but you'd be surprised how many things can be done with the right incentive).

You can rage over guys with her (and she'll rage harder than you).

You can also go shopping with her, or cook with her, or do any of those stupid everyday things, really. No matter what you're into, she will be your Quality Sidekick. As long as you don't call her Nymphadora.

That's what I have always liked about her. Whatever stupid shit I do, she rolls with it without second-guessing or judging me.

. .

Anyway, we were sitting in the kitchen _you-know-where _the other evening, and she suddenly said that she wanted to talk. We sat ogling each other for almost a full minute before Dora's hair turned bright red with embarrassment… which was a sign that she wanted to talk about…

(drumroll)

…_a GUY?_

No.

It was about a bloody AUROR MISSION.

. .

Essentially, Dora asked me if I could still read minds (now… her, too!). I said yeah, and she launched into this long and detailed explanation on the Ministry and the Unspeakables…

My Dad had told me about them once; they work at the Department of Mysteries and they look extremely punk rock in their fleeting dark cloaks. Like the Men in Black, but cooler. As for their occupation – no one knows what they're doing exactly, but let's say they're busy with shit you don't wanna know about and would hardly even believe.

And apparently, one of those Men in Black – let's call him Agent B – got hospitalized a few months ago after having tried to steal the Weapon.

The attempt left Agent B with lasting damage (loss of memory, speech disorders, panic fits and so forth). Dora suspects that he's been Imperiused, but the Department of Magical Law Enforcement won't let the Auror Office investigate, because Agent B is still being kept in St Mungo's. He's getting better, though… not capable of conscious speech yet, but Dora says I might be able to pluck some information out of his brain before Fudge and his council decides that the entire case is too delicate and they call it a day.

So, SITUATION ANALYSIS: the Ministry won't do its job, so it falls to bloody_ me_ to solve the crime. And Dora has to risk her own job (on paper) to actually _do _her job (in real life).

You're probably thinking that I should stay well out of this, don't you? Well. Look… my favourite colleague is a former gangster; I spy on the Minister for Magic for an underground organisation led by an allegedly insane wizard; my closest friend is a werewolf and I sleep with a "mass murderer"…

At this point, I don't think that breaking into a closed hospital ward would make things worse.

* * *

**3 January 1996**

Dear Diary,

Sorry I didn't say it sooner, but: HAPPY NEW YEAR!

It's not very happy, though… at least as far as I'm concerned.

My current situation could be depicted with a huge pile of dragon dung drenched with rain. Yeah. A several feel tall oozing, ugly-brown thing that can't seem to decide which way it should collapse.

It all started with Dora and me – we've made a wicked plan for the infiltration of St Mungo's. It was New Year's Eve and all, which led us to the misconception that we both deserved some means of _moderate amusement_.

(Don't look at me like that… I've been _grounded_ for almost two weeks now, remember?!)

Well. Long story short… I don't know what happened – like, I don't have the SLIGHTEST – but apparently, we've made the cover of the Witch Weekly with half of the Weird Sisters (and some other old schoolmates).

And we both happened to wake up in the Paracelsus Ward of Saint Mungo's.

Must have been a pub crawl or something… I had to be _really_ drunk already to go on a pub crawl involving Myron Wagtail, though…

Thankfully, "nothing happened" – if we'd made out or something, it would have surely made it into the papers, and Sirius would already be back in Azkaban for double murder.

I might have killed myself first, though.

. .

CONSEQUENCE OF THE ABOVE: I'm 25 years old and I still had the _nerve_ to arrive to an important meeting straight outta detox. Like – okay, it was for the Order, but I felt kind of bad when we rushed into _you-know-where_ ten minutes late and Dora stumbled over that ugly troll-leg of an umbrella stand.

(You see?! _My conscience is stirring._ Merlin, I'm not supposed to have a _conscience_ – am I getting old, or what?)

That aforementioned _bad feeling_ of mine soon turned into exhilaration, though, as I had to sit through various presentations on What I Should and Shouldn't Do.

**Lecturers:**

(1) Mrs Black, who laid us all her usual insults (but this time she forgot that Sirius and I were living in sin)

(2) Snape, who made nasty comments on me and "the night life in Knockturn Alley" making all the second-hand allusions to Myron Wagtail _(Could he be reading the Witch Weekly, too?!)_

(3) Moody, who cited fifteen possible ways of getting caught by Death Eaters via our example (I guess his lecture was mostly aimed at Dora but let me claim some of the credit…).

(4) Dumbledore, who questioned me in detail about the mind-reading incident with Harry and made me promise that I'd never do something like that again. He didn't seem the least bit concerned about the rest, though, and I can't thank him enough for that…

(5) And finally – unsurprisingly so – _Sirius,_ who somehow seemed more upset by the knowledge that I woke up in St Mungo's than anything else, although he did his best to avoid the subject entirely (and managed it for about twenty seconds).

There's one thing that bugs me, though – he made me promise that I wouldn't do anything rash or stupid from now on, even if it _feels good,_ or even if it seems to help the Order. And… I think that our Agent B-related quest with Dora kind of fits into the intersection of those two categories.

(Is Sirius a Legilimens, too, or something?!)

. .

It will be hard for me to break that promise – and I know that when I will, Sirius will only understand that I broke it, not that it was _hard_. Which makes it all the harder…

I've promised Dora that I'd help her, though.

I can't leave her alone in this, can I?

* * *

**Author's Notes**

The Transylvania Fiasco can be read in its full glory in my '_Gadding with Ghouls_'.

_'The Men in Black'_ is one of Lucy's references to Muggle comics - if you've read GwG, you might already remember that she adores them.

**Thank you for reading this far! Any kind of feedback is appreciated...**


	7. Percival Graves Breaks the Law

**4 January 1996**

Finally got my new crib yesterday. Kudos to Lucius Malfoy, though, because he really _did_ try to eff things up – the glitch he found was that I don't, technically, bear the name of _Corbitt_.

See, the properties of such ancient families are not normally given over to hobos like me.

. .

I just can't believe it, you know. Something stinks here. I mean… one day, Dumbledore knocks on my door like Gandalf the Grey, drags me out on _an adventure,_ and WHOOSH – everything changes. People like Remus and Sirius stumble into my life. I get decently paid. I go on secret missions to nettle the Ministry. The Corbitts land me their Darlington estate of, I think, at least half a million in Galleons, with several acres of forest, hills and whatnot around…

And _nothing happens_, you know?! No apocalypse. No mental breakdown. It's not even that I'm doing that wicked Muggle hallucination thing. This is _actually_ happening. Right now, I'm sitting in my new kitchen – bigger than the last three flats I've lived in –, smoking my good-morning Lucky Strike, and I wonder where's the disaster in all this.

When is it going to collapse?

. .

Sirius insisted that he would come with me to get the keys – somewhat ironic, as I've been listening to his tirades on how reckless and stupid I was since New Year's. Bloody hypocrite.

(I swear it was a lot more enjoyable when he was doing the Naughty/Nice thing. I never knew which face he was going to wear next).

I let him come with me, though – would've been kinda suspicious if I'd have suddenly broken up with my rich Swiss boyfriend, I guess. So I morphed him back into that blonde beauty and we did our best to look like a happy couple who don't fantasize about strangling each other.

. .

Honestly, it's terrifying to realize how rich I'd gotten.

Make no mistake, everything figures on the papers Malfoy was harassing me with. X acres of land, Y square feet of rooms and all that jazz. They're just numbers – all right, I immediately understood that the property was _big,_ but until I actually set foot there, I didn't realise just how _astonishingly huge_ it was.

We met my aunt and uncle in front of this giant wrought-iron gate with the Corbitt family sigil over it (two snakes entwined in a field of black and green, below them the family words: _Primus inter pares _– hypocrisy much? – and a red rose which somehow reminded me of the Tudors). It felt like entering Versailles or something, although you could tell that no one had lived there for a while. At one side, the hedge seemed a whole four inches taller than the other. (!)

Then Uncle Percival opened the gate with a flick of his wand and we came through. It was like getting hit square in the chest – a gripping, powerful, _weighty _sensation. I suddenly felt a pound heavier, as if I was compelled to carry something with me for the rest of my life. I think it wasn't just one spell, but the combination of many.

The place seemed as well protected as _you-know-where…_ but why in Merlin's name would the Corbitts need such security measures? They're one of _those_ families, aren't they…? The ones You-Know-Who would never touch.

. .

I was at that point of my thinking when Sirius came within range of the spells, too, and he stopped dead in his tracks. _"The Fidelius…"_ He said. He looked like he was going to faint, or something, and I felt this sudden rush of COMPLETE PANIC – _what if my charms were going to break? What if his real face was going to be revealed…?_ Nothing happened, though – he remained perfectly Swiss.

"_So you recognized it,"_ said my Uncle in a funny voice. _"May I ask how?"_

"_Le sentiment,"_ said Sirius softly. I suddenly admired him so damn much for keeping the façade.

My Aunt looked at him with sudden interest and asked if he'd already cast one. _"No,"_ he said. _"But I've seen one break."_

There was a long silence, interrupted only by the crunching sound of our steps along the gravelly garden path. I felt guilty that I'd let Sirius put himself in danger for me with so much at stake for him – but I also felt really, _really_ grateful that he had my back. Not many people would do that for me, you know...

I'm bad at thank you-s, and I couldn't have said anything in front of my relatives anyway, so I just squeezed his hand. He didn't push me away.

. .

My new house looks actually more like a _castle. _I shit you not. So huge… so ancient… and beautiful. A bit Gothic, but more Roman than Gothic. I mean – oh, that's misleading. It's not, like, Hogwarts Castle-huge, or anything. Might be the size of a cathedral, but not as high, either… Fancy stonework, gargoyles and ivy-clad walls, with lots of windows looking to the east and west. Long story short, it's the kind of home ancient wizarding families are expected to have.

I can't breathe. Are the Corbitts expecting me to live in THAT?!

. .

I have to admit that there were some _not-so-decent _thoughts running around in my head as we walked 'round the estate. See, my Mum was a Corbitt, and she died when I was ten – meaning that I remember her, quite clearly – and she never really mentioned her family. We lived in the Dawlish family home, passed on from Great-Grandpa to Grandpa to Dad and so forth. Huge Victorian-style house in White Oaks. We had that, and my Dad's salary… and a fancy weekend house in Nice that we rented to old couples practically all year… but that was it.

I hardly ever saw anything outside bloody White Oaks and I sure as hell never saw the Corbitts. _Where the heck had they been…? _Why didn't they, I don't know, send me at least some candy for Christmas if they were that stinking rich…?

Did Mum have some _row _with them, or something? Was Mum someone like me, someone who didn't fit in? Someone who wouldn't apply to the Terms and Conditions?

Now, _that_ seems like a very feasible explanation. I like the thought. But if I'm right, if Mum was a rebel, then how, just HOW did she end up with my horrible, boring Dad…?!

And why would the Corbitts reappear just now? Why did my Grandpa suddenly realize that I existed and why did he get so generous? Why, why, why?!

. .

Family mysteries aside, it might be useful to walk you around in my new crib. Just in case.

First, we have a _proper_ entrance hall. The floor is a mosaic of black and white marble tiles, with armoured figures standing vigil along the walls like in bloody Hogwarts. The Corbitts have plastered their family tree upon the wall like the Blacks – it is placed above a giant fireplace reserved to Floo network connections, I suppose.

The rest of the castle is just… just HUGE.

Things I Now Have at Home:

\- an armoury(!)

\- SEVERAL dining rooms

\- a big-ass kitchen

\- a LIBRARY! Full of books the Corbitts no longer needed…

\- a Potions laboratory

\- a giant cellar filled with who-knows-what

\- a Great Hall, like in Hogwarts (much smaller, of course). My Aunt tells me that those crazy-ass Corbitts did DUELS there. I wonder if anyone had ever died…

\- entire SUITES for living. There's one I really like – it has two connected bedrooms and a long balcony, facing the lake.

\- …oh yeah. I have a lake, too. And a forest. And a greenhouse. I'll give it a boost.

And things are in much better state than expected. I thought I'd have to pour at least five grands into it – renovation spell experts, cleaning crew, professional inspection and all that jazz – before selling everything off. Because let's be honest, what in Merlin's bloody name would I do with a big-ass estate like that…?

But as we walked it through, I felt increasingly disturbed by the fact that _I liked it._

I feel drawn to the place. I think it's homely, and beautiful. I kind of feel like staying, honestly…

I should probably wait a few quiet months, then sell the whole thing off before it grows on me too much, or before the You-Know-Who-situation escalates. That will send property prices under fucking _sea level._

. .

My Aunt told us a few things about the house while my Uncle was busy with breaking the Fidelius and the other security spells, and I must tell you that she had one _very_ interesting slip of tongue.

We were walking through the corridor on ground level, and I saw a huge black halo around the entrance of the dining hall, as if the wall had been burned or something. Sirius practically _jumped_ to have a look at it. It's his Auror side, I guess – been repressed for so long, and now it has a chance to shine again. He said, _"Wow – that was some massive piece of Dark Magic right there," _and my Aunt answered, deadpan, _"Right it was, Gellert!"_

And I don't really know why I _got it_ within the blink of an eye – it might have been some latent knowledge, or the conversation I've had with Dumbledore after Transylvania or maybe my Legilimency – but I completely fucked up Sirius's chance to say _"C'est Geoffroy, Madame!",_ and I broke in, with the gentle delicacy of a Hungarian Horntail,

"_Gellert? As in – Grindelwald?"_

They both stared at me, quite unnerved, then something changed in Sirius's eyes. It was some sparkle of excitement that flared up, then died out instantly (made me feel light-headed – bloody amazing eyes. I've told you). Anyway, he clearly understood something that I didn't, and decided to act on it.

"_Est-ce vrai, alors?"_ He said under his breath, clearly enough to be understood. _"Je lui ressemble…?"_

"_Yes – yes you do,"_ said my Aunt quietly. _"Disconcertingly so. To the point of absolute confusion."_

"_Vous n'êtes pas la première de me l'avoir d_…" Sirius shook his head, and I guessed that for once, he had genuinely forgotten that he was supposed to speak English. _"…I've heard that before … but I never knew it to be true."_

"_But how do you know?"_ I insisted, suddenly wishing I had Dumbledore's ability to mentally X-ray people with my eyes. _"Did you meet Grindelwald? When you were young? Did you know him?"_

For a moment, Aunt Rowan seemed at least as uncomfortable as I, when we were talking about my Hyde Park Residence. _"I've had the mischance… long before he did any of those unspeakable things. I wouldn't have thought…."_ She shook her head. _"It doesn't matter."_

I suddenly felt very sorry for Aunt Rowan, I don't really know why.

"_So…"_ Sirius grinned abruptly at me. _"I look like a mass murderer from the forties. Now isn't that hilarious."_

We looked at each other and cracked up like the Weasley twins after the occasional poop prank. I'm pretty sure that Aunt Rowan thought we were nuts.

. .

The whole key reception and property check and everything had gone quite smoothly – I was impressed with ourselves, really. Naturally, it wouldn't have been us if we hadn't fucked it up in the end. Or, for that matter, if Dumbledore hadn't fucked it up for us.

We were saying our farewells when suddenly, Fawkes popped out of thin air in a flash of scarlet flames, as he occasionally does when his master wants something from me. Slightly more grandiose than sending an owl, mind you… a phoenix is exceptionally hard to ignore, given that the average wizard sees only one of its kind in their entire life (if ever): _this one_.

I can't really describe the utterly and completely DEAD silence that settled between us. Then Fawkes squawked in his unearthly voice and laid his golden eyes straight on me.

"_It is from him, isn't it?"_ Said Aunt Rowan. All warmth had vanished from her voice, and I felt _tension_ – underlying tension, so tight and so violent that it made me jump. _"From Dumbledore. Why would you be getting messages from Dumbledore?"_

My eyes widened, and I was suddenly taken over by utter dread – what if she and Uncle Percival were one of _those_ people, too? One of those who thought Dumbledore was crazy…?

Luckily, Sirius was there to help me out.

"_It's got to be about the job, yes?"_ He said excitedly, then turned to my Aunt with sudden pride. _"Mademoiselle is going to teach at Hogwarts – sudden fallout of staff… I hope I'll get a glimpse! Beauxbatons, ce n'est que de règles… Are there really merpeople around? And Acromantulae!"_

"_Don't get your hopes up,"_ I said, deadpan. _"The Forbidden Forest is forbidden for a reason, you know. Werewolves and stuff."_ I turned back to the Graves'. _"Excuse us, really. It's been a pleasure."_

"_Pleasure,"_ said Aunt Rowan rigidly.

"_Pleasure,"_ Uncle Percival nodded. He was holding her, in the same way Sirius was holding me.

Three very awkward seconds passed – perhaps we've all been waiting for signs of some kind of affection, some kind of connection that should be there in just any family – but there was none of it. Too much distance, I guess; and too many secrets.

Distance is like a thicket, sometimes. Not some wide dimension, but on the contrary: a very restricted one. You can't see through it, you can't see through the idea that the other person is too far away from you, that they wouldn't _understand_.

We've nodded our goodbyes and they walked away, followed by Fawkes's unblinking golden eyes. Then, suddenly, my Uncle turned back and looked at me very seriously.

_Fifth of January, _said his voice in my head, breaking through my mental barriers like some immaterial filleting knife. _Morning. 8 o'clock. Door to the Department of Mysteries. Alone._

I believe it qualifies as something rash and stupid, but I decided I would go.

. .

On another note, Dumbledore _actually_ just wanted to talk about the job. No illusions, though: I'm sure he knows that Sirius was there with me in bloody Darlington.

That's just Dumbledore. He knows things.

* * *

**5 January 1996**

Sitting at Fortescue's with Remus, sippin' some real fine chocolate. He accepted to be my guest for bloody once (it's a full moon's day).

I'm busy today, but I still have, like, two hours before we launch our Secret Questioning Operation with Dora, so I thought I would tell you about my meeting with Uncle Percival this morning. Now, let me familiarize you with some information so you could fully appreciate what lies ahead:

Things to know about Percival Graves

One: He was Head of the MACUSA for decades.

Two: I think he had once been Minister for Magic in the U.S. for, like, a year.

Three: Been leading the U.S. Magical Law Enforcement ever since. Respectively, he's _That One Guy You Don't Wanna Cross_, and that's basically how he looks, talks and walks around. Essentially, he's a living lawbook.

Four: I'm pretty sure he struggles with serious OCD.

Five: Dumbledore told me once that, I quote,_ "Percival Graves is not a man who would despise anyone. I hope you will have the chance to understand that."_

Guess I understood that today.

. .

We met in front of the door to the Department of Mysteries as he had suggested. Morning. Eight o'clock. With absolutely no one around. I must say that he picked the spot quite well.

Uncle Percival was already there when I arrived (long dark coat, silver scarf and all), looking as nervous as a legendary Auror can get. We exchanged cautious greetings, and then he's like, _"I don't have much time… your Aunt doesn't know I'm here, and she will not, either. I __am acting against my better judgement. __Have I been clear?"_

"_Yes… of course,"_ I stammered.

To be quite honest, he could've said _you will break into a Wizengamot hearing wearing a dr__agon__ costume and dance polka on the pulpit_ and I would've said _yes, Uncle, of course, Uncle_…

He did nothing of the sort, though. He just looked me in the eye and said _"We guessed that you work for Dumbledore."_ I tried to interrupt, but he raised his hand. _"Not a word! Row__an__ and I… we are familiar with Dumbledore's ideas of mutual benefit and personal agreement. We cannot – will not – tell you what to do, and we don't want to know about any of it, either."_

"_He's not crazy,"_ I said in a very small voice. _"Dumbledore, I mean. Please believe me, Uncle, he is not."_

"_Of course he is not,"_ said Uncle Percival. He leaned closer. _"Listen… if something happens… if you need a way out of whatever you have gotten yourself into, I want you to have this."_ He pulled a small object out of his pocket and pushed it into my hands. _"Use it if you have to. I will know when you do, and I will make sure you don't get in trouble."_

I turned the thing over, then opened it. It was a small pouch. Leather. Painted navy blue…

A passport, and an ID behind it. And a domicile card. And a wizarding visa. All bloody empty.

I stared at my Uncle, eyes wide like Galleons. I wanted to thank him eloquently, but all I could say was, _"What on Earth…"_

"_Use it, if you have to,"_ he repeated, voice filled with self-hatred. _"Fill in any name, it will work."_

"_But how…"_ I shook my head. _"And why…"_

At that moment, the elevator sprang to life near us. Someone was coming – and next thing I knew, Uncle Percival disappeared. I don't know where. I don't know how. You can't bloody _Disapparate_ in the Ministry. But then again – he is Percival Graves.

There is one thing I'd really like to know, though – what was thatabout Dumbledore and mutual agreements?

_Merlin._

There must be quite the story behind.

. .

Some masochistic part of me likes going down to the Department of Mysteries, by the way. There is always something lingering in the air – it's what the Centaurs call _"the song from beyond"._ It's the same feeling you get around Thestrals: the touch of some great invisible hand that could pick you up any second and take you away. Like – death. When you're not used to the feeling, it's frightening, but there's so much more to it.

The Centaurs think that death is a liberation: the moment when your soul breaks the boundaries of your body and flies free to acquire knowledge that was beyond the capacities of your physical self. That is why we can't communicate with our dead: they talk in ways we don't get, and we could not answer even if we understood them. The only exception to that rule are ghosts – Ronan had always pitied them, and Bane thought they were a waste of time.

One day, I'll tell you about Ronan and Bane, too. You know what? I'll make an entire list of _Beings and Beasts Who Have Shown More Fatherly Feelings Towards Me Than My Own Father_. But I've rambled again.

. .

Remus just scribbled a note on my napkin. It goes,

"_there will be time / to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet"_

_(line)_

…_I'm afraid you're about to meet them._

…that's Eliot, right? _Is it?_ Or is it just his subtly impertinent way to say I look like hell today? Sure as hell I haven't slept much, but I'm still far from beating Remus Lupin, the Sassy Sovereign of Sub-Eye Shadows.

* * *

**7 January 1996**

Had a GIANT row with Sirius today. Sort of a _final_ one… I know it sounds ridiculous at this point, but I can't see us reconciling over what just happened.

I regret nothing, though. It had to be done.

. .

…I mean, it's not that I'm not angry about it, or that I'm bending things my way… or that I've already quit crying like a baby over this piece of paper… (Pathetic!). It's just that – and if some guy ever puts me up the duff, I'll tell my son/daughter the same thing – so essentially, it's just that you've got to have some _integrity,_ for fuck's sake_._

You should have things you _allow_ people to do, and things you don't. That's the foundation of everything. That's how you go on when the guy leaves you (because it's usually not an IF, but a WHEN); that's how you pick up your pieces and put them away into yet_ another_ box saying that you'll repair them on the way, but you never fucking will.

. .

I hooked up with Sirius under the condition that there'd be no controlling me, or reprimanding me, or keeping me from doing things… because then, I would get _nasty._ And I promised I won't (physically) keep him from doing stupid shit, either.

_The Code of_ _Mutual Respect and the Frontiers of Personal Space_, I'd call the thing if I ever had the perseverance to write it down. My _ars vitae_, if you will. Or the word might rather be _lex vitae_. Not that I care that bloody much, though.

. .

Long story short, Sirius had promised that he wouldn't cross the lines I've drawn for him. But today, he did; so I got nasty, and _he_ got even nastier, and things exploded in a cataclysm of nastiness. I don't really feel like talking about it – we've told each other off the way we often do. It's just that we've gone further than ever…

And then Sirius launched the kind of speech I'd been expecting for a while. It starts with the evergreen classic _"Seems like I only manage to hurt you rather than make you happy(…)" _and it goes as far as you can imagine. I was still in my _nasty _mood, so I laughed and I said that it wasn't _original;_ and then Sirius said that it was ME _(me!)_ who wasn't _original_ because I was probably doing the same thing with every man I met, over and over again. (_"You start easy, yes? Well, at least one gets to shag you before you get so fucking vicious!" )_

Yeah. Sirius Black told me that. There are earwitnesses.

Anyway, something snapped in me RIGHT THERE, and I gave him this GIANT BACKHANDED SLAP. Like, _echoing _giant. Nose-bleeding giant. _Charlie-Weasley-taught-me-and-he-is-an-expert_ kind of giant. Powered by some accidental magic, too.

I must admit that I'm proud of that one. It had to be _painful_…

Anyway, I stormed out of the room and through the parlour. We were after an Order meeting, and everyone who remained there suddenly tried to look as busy as you can get (save for Snape, who was staring at me as if it was still Christmas or something).

I got out of that horrible house and shut the door with a _Colloportus _(loud enough that Sirius's Mum would wake and call him a _filthy blood-traitor _all over again). Then I came back here, to Darlington, and I cried for three fucking hours in a row. Like a pathetic toddler.

I guess I really _did_ fancy the guy. But it doesn't matter now, does it? Seems like he gave up on me, like all the others.

I hope I broke his nose, or something.

. .

I think you would expect to know why that row with Sirius broke out in the first place. So_… _unfortunately, our secret little mission with Dora didn't go unnoticed; and Sirius deemed it _"reckless and entirely unnecessary", _saying that I was _"endangering myself"_ and _"putting myself into situations I was not qualified for"_ and _"Dora is an Auror, remember that",_ and _"you promised",_ and_ "you're not a fighter, for Merlin's sake". _Blah-blah-blah-blah-blah.

He flat out told me that the Death Eaters were going to get me for having investigated the case of Agent B.

I think he's going nuts in that house.

. .

You could say that Sirius has a right to his opinion, and that's perfectly OK. He_ can_ have his opinion. And you know where he can shove it.

It's not like Dora didn't ASK for my help – most of the time, people ask for help when they need it. And it's not that I've been unhelpful, either. After all, I've just acquired EXTREMELY valuable information that the Order couldn't, under any circumstances, have gotten without me. I'm such a terrible person, huh? Such an idiot. Such an incompetent tool.

I'll tell you about Agent B when I've managed to calm down. At least a bit.

. .

Sirius fucking Black. _Hurts me rather than makes me happy._ My _ass._

He was one of those creatures (very few of whom are humans) who _mattered_ to me. He still matters to me, I reckon. How could he talk to me like that?! Guess he was just in it for the shagging, like everyone else. Funny how surprised you can still get. Why is it so DAMN astounding that he doesn't love me?

I'm utterly and completely unlovable.

. .

It's just that I was starting to think – _honestly,_ I was starting to think that Sirius would be able to put up with me. On the long term. But why would he even _try_ to? It doesn't make sense. Once You-Know-Who's exposed, the Order will find that Pettigrew guy and have him thrown into fucking Azkaban where he belongs. Then Sirius will be freed, and he'll get on with his life.

Plenty of fish in the sea. He'll be a fucking _celebrity_. Why would he go on wasting his time on nasty _me?_

. .

Guess I'll fetch Dora for some _Ritual Raging Over Guys_. Does wonders. You should try it whoever you are and whoever you're into. It's not about being a GIRL that matters and it's not about raging over a GUY that matters, either – it's the _Raging _itself, and its _Rituality_.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

…_no, you're not the only person who would like to thrash Lucy with a dead fish right now._

_**Feedback is always appreciated!**_


	8. Alastor Moody, Prophet

**9 January 1996**

All right. So that's it. I fucked up. I'm a_ colossal _idiot.

Holy Merlin. Someone, kill me, please! Then bring me back with some Dark Magic and kill me again…!

. .

I guess this is my wake-up call to tell the whole story the way I should, like, _in order_ – but I just can't help it, I need to start with the worst. So: remember Broderick Bode? Agent B? The Unspeakable guy we questioned with Dora?

Well, he's DEAD. Like, physically. _Not breathing_, that is. Killed, eliminated, extinguished. _Caput_. The Prophet vaguely mentions an "accident," but getting suffocated by a Devil's Snare in your sleep doesn't qualify as an _accident_ if you ask me.

Let's face it, it's our fault. Dora's and mine – if we haven't questioned him, maybe he wouldn't have come into crossfire… Gonna tell you the whole story, anyway. You know, just in case I'd need to clear myself in front of the Wizengamot.

. .

Throwback to 5 January, afternoon: it was a clear, cold Friday. The calm before the shitstorm.

Dora was done in the Ministry at noon, for bloody once. After lunch, we Flooed to Saint Mungo's, with the innocent-looking (and unabashedly hypocritical) pretext to visit the Longbottoms in the closed ward.

It was the perfect alibi, to be sure – I've visited them before with Dad. My parents had liked them a lot, as I understand. Dora continues to visit them every year, and she tells me that it's always the same thing. "Alice and Frank" stare at her blankly, and they don't respond to anything…

I think the Longbottoms have a son. Maybe he keeps visiting them, too – must be the absolute worst thing in the universe. I mean, I'll never quite get over the way Mum died; but at least – how do I put this? Well, _at least things ended there._ Mum can't open her grave to haunt me… but to have your parents alive but not speaking, not reacting, not recognizing you… that kind of puts things into perspective, eh?

I've told Dora a thousand times that she shouldn't go visiting. She's just torturing herself and the Longbottoms won't recognize her, anyway. Bellatrix Lestrange had Crucioed them to insanity, that's the point. They don't get shit. I'm not even sure if they know who they are.

. .

Thankfully, the Healer in charge didn't share my pragmatic approach, and she allowed us a full hour, all alone with the crazy/otherwise incapacitated people in the hospital room. And here goes the next piece of advice for my never-to-be-born child: Don't you allow yourself to get depressed by the prospect of visiting a closed ward, honey. Things could always get worse.

For example, you could meet your ex there.

. .

Well. One day, I might write an epic on _How I Met Gilderoy Lockhart_ – not a happy tale, and not one I'm proud of. Let's say we've travelled together for a while, quite on the other side of the planet. I think I've always known he was a hoax – he, on the other hand, still doesn't know that my name is not Dorothy. Well, that's kind of the point. He knows _nothing_ today, because his mind has been wiped blank. _Completely_ blank, I checked.

It was horrible to see him like this, huddled up alone in the castle he'd made of blankets, signing photos for himself. _"This is one of his unreachable days,"_ the healer said. _"He's making progress, though – you should've seen him at Christmas!" _And she pats Gil on the back like you pet a six-year-old, then leaves the room.

That, probably, is the only way to handle this: just turn and walk away. Because there is nothing to do.

. .

I've been with the guy for what, three months? Not even that long, I suppose. I don't know why I am even shocked. I can't talk about it with Dora, though, without telling her about a period of my life she doesn't know shit about (and probably shouldn't). And I can't tell Sirius either, now that we're not on speaking terms and all.

Remus might understand, though… yeah, that would be the solution. Remus, and a bottle of vodka.

. .

I wonder why do all the geniuses end up like Dumbledore and You-Know-Who – _"let's-see-the-big-picture"-_guys, standing on pedestals above ordinary people. Why can't they just get down to creating spells that cure _brain damage_ instead…?

But I'm not here to talk about philosophy, or my exes, or Dora's ways of agonizing herself. Let's get right back to the point. And the point is that Broderick Bode was constantly talking in his… well, let's call it _sleep_. It wasn't any language I speak or have even heard of. Utter nonsense, most likely; and his mind, when I looked into it, was nonsensical, too – a salad bowl of memories and impressions without any principle of time or causality, trapped in a whirl of movement.

It was so hard to keep control that I had to use textbook Legilimency in the end (spellwork and all), and my head hurt like a bitch. Unmanageable avalanches of information hit me at once. I couldn't make any sense of them… But then, somewhere back in the physical world, Bode resumed his unintelligible monologue, and I glimpsed_ one_ precious memory in a remote corner of his mind.

I saw him walking through the Department of Mysteries, with a sense of purpose; I felt his urge to _look,_ to find something there, to steal it… I saw him walk through an aisle, deep into a labyrinth of shelves. He was almost there, he found the thing… now he only had to reach out, and take it… but he couldn't take it, it was _unauthorized,_ not to mention that horrible things would happen to him if he tried. Still, he had to take it, he NEEDED to. That was the only option. His urge to do it was extremely strong, without any logical foundation at all. It was like having a destination with no starting point. Then Bode reached the hall he'd been looking for, the one that stored a thousand pale-gleaming orbs… he stopped in front of a shelf to take one… to reach out… _touch…_

…and I suddenly realized just _what_ those orbs were, and why would Bode want to take them; and I also recognized the effects of the Imperius curse.

Next thing I knew I was screaming and biting my fist because the headache came back, worse than ever. Then Dora sort of panicked, and we've had a very narrow escape from the healers. We hid in the loo. I took a Muggle Xanax pill (shame on me!) and stared blankly into space for a whole ten minutes while Dora was continuously asking me what the heck was going on. I went on massaging my head for a few more minutes, the abruptly, I looked up at her and said that I was going to Dumbledore, like, RIGHT FUCKING THEN.

So she looks at me funnily, and she's like, _"You both have that. It's amazing."_

Me: _"Huh?"_

Her: _"Sirius and you. The Don't Cha Mess With Me-voice."_

Me: _"I guess so."_

We left it at that.

(Also, fuck Sirius).

. .

Charlie Weasley told me once that some things I do can only be explained if you suppose that I have some giant immaterial _balls_ in my panties. Well… rushing openly into Dumbledore's office on a Friday afternoon was_ definitely_ one of those things.

Now, don't look at me like that… For someone who had just gone through an hour-long Legilimency session, I was pretty neat. Modest cleavage, uncomfortable high heels, solid makeup, elegantly arrogant demeanour – all in all, I wore my Ministry-face. My legs weren't even shaking as I stormed through the door, unannounced, the way Dumbledore had specifically told everyone _not _to.

(In my defence: those sassy guarding statues annoyed the living hell out of me. How the _fuck_ am I supposed to know that Dumbledore has switched to Muggle sweets now, and the new keyword that opens his Merlin-forsaken office is _Mars chocolate?!)_

Anyway – I stormed through the door, about as gently as an enraged Vipertooth, like, _"PROFESSOR DUMBLEDORE!"_ You know, I had completely forgotten that Hogwarts was a big-ass institute, now infiltrated by the Ministry. And of course, with my usual luck, I happened to stumble upon Umbridge herself, right as I came through the door (I almost knocked her over in fact), and she stopped mid-sentence, quite unpleasantly surprised if you ask me.

Thanks to Bode, my head was about as clear as the Black Lake, but I still recognized the need for improvisation. So I'm like, _"Headmaster – I'm so sorry for being late… I honestly have no excuse…"_ (Small NOD to THE FAT FROG). _"…and sorry for interrupting whatever I interrupted. I might as well… wait outside."_

The Fat Frog (false-sweet voice):_ "I was under the impression that you would start instructing students at the end of this month, dear."_

Me:_ "Yes, I am, but today, I'm supposed to…"_ (A very good SHOW of SUDDEN MORTIFICATION). _"Oh! Professor Dumbledore! Please tell me that my briefing is today, and not the other Friday! You sent me an owl…"_

Dumbledore (lightly):_ "Oh… the briefing. How could I have forgotten! Please, make yourself comfortable."_ (Slight TILT of his HEAD). _"Dolores – I appreciate your concern, but I firmly believe that Professor Flitwick's expertise is highly sufficient to keep his position. He has my full support in that respect. Now – if you would excuse us… Miss Dawlish shall need to get back to London soon, and I have completely forgotten about her briefing."_

The Fat Frog didn't look very convinced, but she backed down all the same. You just can't say no to Dumbledore, I suppose…

. .

I asked what Umbridge's problem with Professor Flitwick was, and when Dumbledore said _"his Goblin ancestors", _I had this slight fit of nausea; but then he leaned back in his fancy chair, like, _"Tell me why you came here."_ And I, who know Dumbledore relatively well compared to other people who claim to know him, heard the unspoken part of the sentence, too:_ "…and it better be VERY important."_

So I was completely honest for once, and told him everything; and Dumbledore stood up from his chair, and began pacing up and down in the room the way he often would, back in the day, before he'd teach me some interesting shit.

"_So you entered his mind…"_ he muttered_, "and you saw what he did… I knew it was possible, but the risk seemed too great… it has been done before, but usually, the intruder's mind cannot bear the strain… are you all right? How do you feel right now?"_

"_Dizzy. Something like… like when you're smoking, ah, you know, weed."_ I said lamely. Somehow, it wasn't hard to imagine that Dumbledore would know what smoking weed felt like.

He looked at me sharply. _"Can you recall your previous day?"_

I suddenly could not, so I kind of panicked and Dumbledore dragged me straight down to the Healing Ward, where Madame Pomfrey streamed an entire goblet of Dreamless Sleep down my throat. I stayed there until late in the evening, when Snape woke me up (as pleasantly as you can imagine), and I Flooed back _you-know-where _to an Order meeting (minus the Hogwarts staff). It was then that I had that big-ass row with Sirius. But I have already told you about that.

So here we are. Broke up with my man, an Unspeakable dude died because of me and I still have fits of migraine.

Tra-la-lah.

* * *

**10 January 1996**

Very beautiful cover of the Prophet today. _"MASS BREAKOUT OF AZKABAN"_ and stuff. Looky that. While Dolores Umbridge is preoccupied with my old professor's supposed Goblin ancestors, the woman who murdered my mother is roaming free with nine – _nine_ – of her buddies.

The Ministry's answer to everything: _"Sirius Black gathers his old master's servants around himself". _Oh for fu… _no._ You know what?! I won't even _bother_ to write it down. I'm utterly and completely DONE with our government. Not to be naïve or anything – I know that politics is just about money and notoriety and Orders of Merlin – but damn it… is Fudge _really _too thick to realize how badly this will backfire when You-Know-Who goes out into the open?!

. .

I wish the Aurors would just leave Sirius be. I mean – we're over, and everything, but the guy hasn't done shit. He is _You-Know-Who's_ enemy. He's worth more than all of Fudge's stupid Aurors combined. And I know he reads the Prophet – it must be awful to sit there alone in that dark house and read about how everyone thinks you're a terrible monster.

_And the woman who murdered my mother is now roaming free…_ Maybe she'll come for me, too. Or Dad. How is THAT supposed to make me feel?

* * *

**13 January 1996**

Everyone's upset about what happened to Bode. Kind of puts the incident of Sturgis Podmore in perspective… See, the guy was known to be overly eager to prove himself in front of Dumbledore and – especially – his boss, Kingsley Shacklebolt… In August, he broke into the Department of Mysteries, too, but he was caught before he could try anything. He's in Azkaban now.

We all thought that he was just being irresponsible, but now I wonder… what if he had been Imperiused, too? Hell, what if Fudge _himself_ is Imperiused, and that's why he won't believe the rumours about _You-Know-Who…?_ And if that's true, do we still stand a bloody chance?!

. .

Mad-Eye tells me that I should have, according to all logic, become insane upon entering Bode's mind – on the other hand, Mad-Eye is known to get slightly dramatic when it comes to the foresight of possible disasters.

He also said, however, that Bode was going to be murdered within a week, and we all kind of laughed. And BOOM, he gets murdered. Why _now,_ I wonder…? Did someone figure out what we did with Dora? Or has anyone thought about the possibility of inspection? Or is the whole thing connected to the fact that Bode was reportedly getting better…?

They say that the Unspeakables have no families, but that's bullshit. Everyone has some kind of family, even me. I wonder if anyone misses the guy. Probably not many people. Still… he didn't deserve to die like that. Who knows, maybe that sexy young healer from Floor 2 is on the brink of some epic discovery that could reverse brain damage. Maybe he could have saved Bode… or maybe the bloke was predestined to think he was a teapot until the end of his life. Now we'll never know, because Dora and I dug too deep, and uncovered hell.

Now that Bode is dead, I don't feel half as justified about our little adventure as before. And I wish I hadn't bitchslapped Sirius, or rather: I wish I hadn't let the situation escalate to a point where a bitchslap was necessary.

The worst thing is that he was kind of (I repeat: KIND OF) right. I usually let people shag me before I let them realize how awful I actually am. But hell, I'd never get laid if I didn't, okay? Everyone needs to get laid sometimes.

Well, it's not like it matters now. It seems that Sirius gave up on me anyway, and honestly, I can't blame him for it. I'm a fucking mess.

Maybe the Death Eaters will come for me, after all, like he said, and Crucio the shit out of me. Never been Crucioed before, but I think there are things that hurt more.

* * *

**14 January 1996**

This kitchen is just too bloody big, you know?! Makes me feel even more alone than I already am. Not like it's a new thing.

Merlin, I really need to get over my constant underlying need for _romance._ It's just not gonna happen okay…? I have always wanted a man who would fight for me, and Sirius Black _did_ fight for me until he discovered I was not worth fighting for.

And that's the bloody problem here. If I want the romance kind of thing, I have to become a person who _deserves_ it. Or maybe I should just find a guy who's okay with fighting for me, while being too much of a fucking invalid to see how I really am.

Okay. Done with the drama for today, I promise.

* * *

**15 January 1996**

Dora decided that she likes Remus, and she won't stop pestering me about it. She says that he can't take hints, and sometimes just kind of "floats in space". I'm convinced that (1) Remus understands more of said hints than Dora herself and (2) that he floats perpetually in some higher dimension than us, ordinary humans. That's where his strokes of genius come from.

I told Dora to _persist._ Maybe that will work. She should probably get Remus very drunk and abruptly start snogging him, but that's just not Dora's kind of thing. She wears latex and stuff, but she can be such a blushing maid sometimes.

And I'm not convinced if she knows that Remus is a werewolf. He's my closest friend now. I'm supposed to keep his secrets… but then again, Dora is my childhood friend and you'd want your childhood friend to know that she's dating a werewolf.

And I haven't forgotten what Remus can do when he's not himself.

* * *

**16 January 1996**

Rode around Darlington this evening. Property's still fucking _huge_. And yes… I said _rode._ Turns out that the estate has an entire colony of Thestrals. They even figure on the papers and stuff, I just haven't noticed it yet. Anyway, I befriended one of them, and I named him Morpheus (not very original, I know). Still, I have a fucking Thestral. How awesome is that?!

Morpheus is one of the most punk-rock pets I've ever had. He looks like some leathery goth unicorn. Without the horn. Eh. You get my meaning.

. .

I think I actually like living here, by the way, even if it makes me feel like an evolutional failure for not having a family to fill it. This place is truly wonderful, especially the library. You probably wouldn't think, but I like reading. You can learn loads of interesting stuff from books, especially if you don't believe everything their authors say.

I've been thinking about writing a little update for Aunt Rowan. Like, _the house still stands, you're welcome to stop by if you ever come around_. But that's ridiculous, isn't it? The Graves' live in New York, and the rest of my family doesn't care about me. Why would anyone bother to visit…?

It took me a while to realize, but it kind of _hurts_ that my Grandfather didn't come with my aunt and uncle. To visit me. I mean, I don't even think we've met. I should have asked about him... maybe he and Mum were at odds, like me and Dad.

Although I think Dad would kind of mollify if I died and left a kid behind. He'd raise him (or her), and he'd probably be a lot nicer than he'd been with me. It would make him feel validated.

. .

Anyway, what I wanted to say is that I really like it here, although there's something strange about the mansion itself. I feel like someone's watching me – especially when I prepare to sleep. At times, I wake up at night, and I hear (or I think I hear) someone walking around. Creak of floor-boards, rustle of fabrics, that kind of thing. Doors that I've left open are sometimes closed, or the other way around. Some other times, I walk down to the parlour in the morning, and the curtains are withdrawn, although I'm totally sure that I'd left them closed the previous evening. A family ghoul, maybe…? But that doesn't make sense. Those things moan like bad whores.

. .

Off to make some plans now. I'm starting my Hogwarts teaching sessions this weekend. _So Not Thrilled_. Thank Merlin it's just one weekend a month…

* * *

**18 January 1996, dawn**

Had this stupid dream, and I wanna write it down QUICKLY before I forget it:

Sirius was roaming around in this Wizengamot judge uniform. He just wore it for Halloween, but everyone believed that he was a real judge, or something like that. Anyway, he worked in the Ministry (which looked like my Dad's Victorian-style house for some reason) and he ordered everyone around. Also, Remus was Minister for Magic and I was supposed to have a briefing with him, because I was this detective kind of thing. So I went to the briefing, and Remus gave me the boot because I couldn't speak perfectly in Shakespeare quotes; but then Sirius told me that I could have my job back if I uncovered a criminal in a day. I panicked and went immediately after it because Uncle Graves called me on the Floo, and said very reproachfully that the grass was too long in Darlington and I really needed to cut it down; and with a Muggle lawn mower, because my lawn mowing spells weren't precise enough. So I needed gold to buy a Muggle lawn mower, see. I searched through some files and I uncovered that Fudge had a secret porn career under the nickname Sassy Solomon – I gathered the evidence and all, but Remus wouldn't believe me. Sirius had me convicted for fraud with his sexy blonde secretary, and they both laughed at me and told me what a perv I was, and then they made out, so I watched Sirius make out with that blonde secretary in kind of a slo-mo. Everyone was calling me a liar, and I felt like the world was going to end or something.

Then I woke up, crying.

Shit, I thought this would be funny. I always rest convinced that I can't get more pathetic, and then BOOM – here we go!

. .

Hah. Bet he'd make out with her secretary right in front of me if he had one.

Or might not even feel the need to do it. I haven't heard about him in two weeks.

* * *

**21 January 1996**

Phew. Never thought I'd say this because I've always loved it there, but: FINALLY going home from bloody Hogwarts. My first teaching experience was approximately as terrible as it could get. Now, I'm jolting homewards on the Knight Bus, which is almost full. Plenty of destination priorities… and an entire hour of Stan Shunpike looking at my tits when he thinks I can't see it.

I should set him up with Dora. At least she would no longer complain that _someone's_ ignoring her tits.

. .

Sorry 'bout the bad writing, this bus is a death-trap. Once I get home, though, I'll be way too tired to do anything, so better get down to it right now, while that stupid old hag snores down at me from the gallery.

I actually had my first set of Defence classes planned, which is a pretty good start knowing my usual level of organization. (Basically, I asked Remus what he would do, so the credit is not really mine, either).

. .

Anyway, I thought I was prepared to teach… hah-hah. My ass. First, I had to get through the Initial Preconceptions (the kids had expected Umbridge's evil twin sister to walk into the classroom, or something…), then the fact that I'm a foxy blonde in high heels, not even a decade older than them, and they're gonna have to obey me. I guess that's the hardest part; and since I'm not supposed to act like, well, _me_ in a classroom, I pretty much fucked up the _keep-your-dignity_ part.

At the beginning, it wasn't so bad. We sat in a circle, and I asked the kids who they were, what subjects they were taking – you know, basic briefing thing. There are the Weasley twins (only they weren't there this time, because they were doing detention with Snape), then two other Gryffindors (Angelina Johnson and Lee Jordan), a rather dramatically narcissistic Ravenclaw (Roger Davies), another Ravenclaw who is already One Hundred Percent Stressed about the NEWT-s (Patricia Stimpson) and two Slytherins, thick as thieves (Adrian Pucey and – Merton Graves).

And you know, there is always _that one kid._ That anthropomorphic incarnation of the Devil himself, who wreaks havoc with every breath and fucks shit up within the blink of an eye. Back in my day, I was _that one kid;_ and in my new classroom, _that one kid_ appears to be Merton Graves. I think this calls for the kind of thing I haven't done in a while – a list…

Things That Are Wrong About Me Teaching Merton Graves

One: He plays in the Weird Sisters. At bloody seventeen. He's only finishing Hogwarts because he promised his Daddy that he would. How touching.

Two: …consequence of Point One: he speaks daily to Myron Wagtail, that piece of shit. And I'm sure as hell he'll tell him about me.

Three: He is – if I remember correctly – the great-grandson of my great uncle, which makes us cousins on some level, I suppose…(?) anyway, we're RELATED. Ugh.

Four: He's an annoying little piece of crap. Oh, and he's spoiled. Daddy has to be some Honourable Rich Bloke who has no idea what his son does at school because he's too busy building his career. I recognize the type when I see it.

…anyway, I immediately suspected that Merton Graves would make my life hell, and _voilà,_ he set to it. Friday evening's lesson was a minor disaster; the two Saturday lessons _major_ ones; and after today's three-hour session in the morning, I climbed the stairs to Moaning Myrtle's toilet and cried there for an entire hour. It wasn't really sadness, just… helplessness. And _strain. _So much strain.

. .

Honestly, I was on the brink of telling Dumbledore that I couldn't do this. Teaching is just not for me, especially if I have to act like a Ministry moron, and only graze the surface of all the shit I'm supposed to teach. Honestly, I thought I was all right. Nice, and all. I didn't use four-letter words with those little gits. I was ready to answer their questions.

I just _wasn't _ready to put up with the passive aggressive shit of that kid Merton Graves – always asking trick questions (he's a smart one, I grant him that), always pointing out the logical anomalies of defensive magic, always getting back on points and topics that would reveal that I'm not, in fact, a DADA expert…

I know he was doing it on purpose, and I also know that he felt validated every time I slipped, or made a mistake, or lost my train of thought. Today, he stressed me out so much that I started messing up my spellwork, too. It was pretty fucking awful. That little shit!

I think that's how I'll call him from now on. The Little Shit.

. .

Eventually, I put myself together, though; I assured Myrtle that no, I was rather _not_ keen on becoming her flatmate in the plughole; and trod down to the dungeons to tell Snape about my next teaching weekend. I don't want him to retain the Weasley twins again, they might be the only ones who take my side in the war against Little Shit…

Snape was busy, as always, and – weird – he had no qualms about rescheduling any detentions he might have next month. He even let me have a look at his Draught of Living Death.

I wonder how the snarky bastard does it. It was clearer than a full moon's night.

. .

We've always had an antagonistic-but-fruitful relationship: him, the Head of Slytherin house and me, the Gryffindor with a rather distinctive knack for Potions. And not all my memories of him are bad ones. For example, when I blew up my first cauldron, he gave me detention. I was supposed to write down "_I'm a student, not a flailing mandrill"_ three hundred times, but Snape had been working over a bubbling cauldron right next to me and _that _seemed a lot more interesting. So I started asking him questions _(why do this? why do that? when should the rat brains come in? why should you stir it only counter-clockwise? what would happen if you added Butterbeer to it?), _and once I broke through the necessary amount of ice and walls, he started _answering me,_ as he would do for the next six and a half years.

I mean, whenever he felt like it.

Occasionally, though, he would even start _conversations_ with me, like today. I was wondering aloud if adding mint to the Draught of Living Death would make its surface smoother, when suddenly, Snape cut right through my sentence, out of the blue, saying:

"_I'm rather immersed with a research on Portkeys these days."_

Me: _"…why Portkeys? Not very potion-ish, mind you."_

Him: _"There are not many I would trust with the inspection of such powerful magic. It's more complex than you might think."_

Me: _"More complex how? It's just a shortcut through the dimension of space."_

Him: _"A shortcut with many restrictions. If your Portkey were, for example, to have an appointed destination within a Fidelius Charm, only those who share the Secret would get to the desired place."_

Me: _"Okay, but what would happen to the others?"_

Him (darkly): _"That is what I am researching now. There are many possibilities. Nullified effect… randomized destination… death… an eternal state of limbo within a wormhole-like dimension of space…"_

Me (increasingly interested): _"Whoa…"_

Him: _"Do you know how to do one? Did they teach you at school?"_

Me: _"The spellwork theory was a question on my Charms NEWT, but we never actually did it at school. Dumbledore taught me, though. After my fifth year. But there was a lot more to it than what the books say."_

At that point, there was a noise in the corridor, and Snape glanced up abruptly at me. His eyes were very dark, and icy, somehow.

"_You should get going. The High Inspector said she would like to have a word with me this evening."_

…and that was it. Trust Severus Snape to bring up a super interesting topic, then abandon the conversation at his earliest convenience. Merlin, he must have some _issues,_ too.

You know, I can't help but think that he told me about Portkeys for a reason. I just can't figure out _why_.


	9. Satan's Munchkins

**27 January 1996**

Dear Diary,

Sorry I abandoned you for an entire week, but I don't have the kind of excuse you would accept or believe.

To get the appropriate impression, just assume that my life has transformed into a piece of Muggle pulp fiction. The author just throws in some random shit whenever the plot gets tedious – only, it never gets quite tedious to begin with.

Anyway, I hereby announce the absolute end of the world. I can't work. I can't go home to Darlington. Can't even get up from my bed, actually.

And I can't do magic, because my wand is broken. Ain't no good booze here, either. I've never felt anything like this before. I feel... maimed. I mean, it's not the booze but my _wand_, life's pretty miserable without it. It's like missing an arm or something, although I don't know how missing an arm feels like.

I hope Mr Ollivander can fix it. I can't have a new one. I won't have a new one. I want my old wand back!

. .

I'm trying to pick up the threads to tell you the whole story – I know it doesn't really show, but I AM trying, I swear, it's just that there are two entire days I can't recall. One thing is for sure: Dumbledore must have made up an excuse for my absence at work. Thank Merlin that's settled… Operation Sequestrum or not, Director Ragnuk would totally fire me if I randomly disappeared.

Gnarlak sent me a message disguised as a Chocolate Frog, by the way. He scribbled it onto the box. Just three words _("Get better, pretty!")._ I thought it was cute, until I realized that it was probably just a subtle way to remind me that I owe him ten Galleons…

I owe nothing to the others, though. Sirius, and Remus, and Dora, and Dung, and Dumbledore, and even Moody. They all came to see several times if I was alright. Sirius won't even leave my bedside, the sappy bastard.

But I'm spoiling all your fun, huh? Let's try again.

. .

Dumbledore tells me that You-Know-Who figured out what I did to Bode, and now he's after me. It _is _logical if you squint a bit, but there's something missing from the entire story. A simple explanation, as in, WHY ME?

I mean, I'm not an Auror or anything. I'm just your average Disposable Spy. Why would You-Know-Who want to get_ me_ in particular? It's just so damn hard to believe. It's like being chased by the Devil himself because you stole a toothbrush from a Muggle supermarket.

...oh, but I'm forgetting. _You have no idea what actually happened to me__!_

Well. Let's hope Sirius won't pop in and push the quill out of my hand saying that I need to rest. He's getting overprotective these days.

Oh yeah, so I suppose we're now on speaking terms again.

At this point, I'm not even sure why I'm writing a diary, but I've already started and it's sort of addictive. So I'll do my self-inflicted duty and Deliver. Be patient with me, though, you insentient bunch of paper. Things are still a bit wobbly.

. .

...throwback to January 21. Sunday evening.

It was butt-freezing cold, and a whole thirty inches of snow had fallen on Darlington. The Knight Bus dropped me in the town centre, and I walked all the way out to the estate. I guess I should have Flooed home from Dumbledore's office, but I just didn't wanna go back… Not after that horrible weekend session.

I had a nice warm bath and took a book to bed. It was about Alchemy. I made a mental note that I should show it to Remus sometime – he'd disguised himself as an alchemist on our infamous Transylvania mission, and the whole thing had kind of grown on him.

I stayed in bed reading for a while, feeling like a ridiculous loner, then I went to sleep. It didn't take very long. My wand was left on the nightstand, still in one piece.

Well after midnight, I woke to the sound of a huge china vase clashing. I jumped on my feet and the thing was lying next to my bed, smashed into smithereens. There was no one around, and I don't remember having seen a vase in that room. Ever. Then the door opened slowly, with a creak. It's a pretty heavy door, so it won't get moved by draft or anything.

As you can imagine, I couldn't really appreciate the adventurous aspect of the situation, which is to say, I almost pissed myself. I stared into the darkness like a frightened kid for several seconds…

And then I heard noises from the parlour below. There were _people_ down there… people that I would have never noticed if not for the sound of that vase breaking.

My first thought was _shit,_ and my second thought was that I had to act quickly. I somehow instinctively _knew_ that things were terribly wrong. So I did the ultimate Battle Mage Thing…

…erm, nope. I put a Disillusionment Charm upon myself, and I hid under the bed, trying to control my breathing. It felt like going back in time – see, I did pretty much the same thing in '81, when the Death Eaters came to murder my Mum. I hid under the bed and became invisible. It was one of my early manifestations of magic.

After a minute, the door creaked once again, and I saw three pairs of feet walk in. I was absolutely _terrified_, I thought I would pass out any moment. Then Feet 1 said to the others that I wasn't there, to which Feet 2 countered that he needed to check. Both were "he"-s, but I didn't recognize their voices.

I realized what they would do next – the Revealing Charm, which would tell them that I was hiding right under their nose. For a second, I felt like crying, and then… uh, _then,_ I suppose I must have Blasted the entire bed right into their fucking faces. Oak inlay and double mattress and all. Bet they didn't see that coming.

And then I ran, of course. It was a stupid thing to do but I couldn't really think of anything else. _I couldn't think at all,_ in fact.

I had no time for Floo-calls and I couldn't just have popped in _you-know-where_ because of Dumbledore's security charms. Sending a Patronus wasn't an option, either, because my Patronus is rubbish. And we have already established that I can't Apparate properly.

All in all, I concluded as I ran downstairs and put a nice _Colloportus_ on the door behind myself, I was well and truly fucked.

. .

Now you must be thinking that I'm terribly pathetic, and you don't know half of it.

I'm going to _explain,_ in the process of which I might get a bit apologetic, but… uh… it doesn't matter. Rest assured that I finally figured out what to do because if I didn't, then I wouldn't be writing this right now and you would be excluded from the information that Sirius is a sappy bastard.

So.

I've been living in Darlington for what? Two weeks? Three weeks, not even. And most of the time, I just go there to sleep. I haven't really spent _time_ there, you see, apart from the weekend when I found out about the Thestrals. So when I say that I got lost in my own fucking house, you must realize that it's actually closer to the stupidity level of getting lost in the Louvre than… than in your own fucking house. Right? Let's just say that my brain temporarily turned off its mapping system. Oh no, how _inconvenient_.

Which is a bit more concerning stupidity-wise: I was running around the house barefoot, in a nightgown. I didn't even have a bra on, for fuck's sake! And my hair was a horrible mess. That's what finally saved my life, I guess, because at least it gave me something else to think about than _"MERLIN'S FUCKETY FUCK, I'M SO DAMN SCARED"._

If I had to go, I wanted to go with my hair spot on, you know, and some makeup, too. And DECIDEDLY not without a bra, that's so fucking randy.

And from the moment I got my brain working, everything seemed instantly better. I'm no stranger to adrenaline. I'm a dragon-trainer, for fuck's sake. I worked with Horntails and Norwegian Ridgebacks, huge murderous beasts that can burn you alive. You saw Harry Potter on the Triwizard Tournament? First task? Well. That was my Horntail for you. His name is Mizzet. Contrary to the other dragons you've seen there, he is a male; and he guarded that golden egg more out of greed than parental instinct. But that's a long story.

And adrenaline aside, my experience with dragons was completely useless against Death Eaters, because that's what they were. If I wanted to get away, I had to duel them, which meant I was about as doomed as the Cannons against the Tornadoes.

…_was I?_

I stopped abruptly in a large hall and I suddenly remembered Snape telling me about Portkeys and the Fidelius Charm. And then, I had an _Idea_.

Essentially, it was my inner Gryffindor taking over, I suppose; but even my Slytherin side told me that _this could work_ if I made a Portkey that would set off in about five minutes. A Portkey that would remain unseen, so they wouldn't think of taking it, or even considering its existence.

As you will see, I completely aced that shit.

. .

When the Death Eaters finally caught me in my own dining room, I tried my best to look sassy and unapologetic and absolutely _livid_ in my creasy nightgown. So I put my hands on my hips (one of them _distinctively_ clutching my wand), and I was like, _"Is there a problem, gentlemen?"_

It sounded a lot less badass than when Sirius said it in Transylvania, but it _did_ have some effect. I'd say it confused the shit outta them. So I pressed on, _"Some people are working tomorrow, you know. You've rudely disturbed my sleep. I hope you guys have a really good excuse."_

They were still silent, so I got to the theatrics, diva style, large gestures and all. _"Oh, so you won't talk to me? Afraid that I'd recognize your voices? Working in the next office, perhaps? Weren't playing bad boy these last few years, were we…? The great fucking Death Eaters… more like Satan's Munchkins. You're about that scary in those ridiculous masks."_

"_Oh, but we can take them off, if you like," _said Death Eater One.

"_Definitely,"_ said Death Eater Two. _"Always good to see a familiar face, eh, sweetheart?"_

With that, he ripped off the mask of Death Eater Three.

And the world fucking ended.

Because there are faces and voices that stay with you, no matter where you go, what you do, or how many years pass. They just… _do._

. .

I have very clear memories of the day my Mum died – I know what I ate for breakfast, I know that there was a rainstorm at three in the afternoon, and I know that I left the window open in my room, and my copy of the _Tales of Beedle the Bard_ got soaked. I also know that Mum finally gave in and made me hot sandwiches for dinner. I've always loved hot sandwiches.

And then we both went to sleep. Dad was out on some stupid mission as always, because that's what Aurors do.

And when we woke up in the middle of the night, to the eerie green light of the Dark Mark above the house and Bellatrix Lestrange's laughter, Death Eater Three had been there, too.

Antonin Dolohov had been there. A much younger version of him, of course. Azkaban hardly made him any fitter. Still, he was there, in my house, _right in front of me,_ and I had every right to be completely_ terrified_ of him.

But I wasn't. And when I looked him right in the fucking eye and he looked back at me, calm as you please, I suddenly realized that his nose was close enough to clash frontally with my fist.

Yeah, I fight like a Muggle. What? You thought that a little adrenaline would morph me into some dueling expert? I knew they were going to catch me, anyway. I just wanted to have once chance, _one chance_ to break that fucker's nose.

I surprised myself, you know – I had the composure to cast a Shield Charm and deflect five or six of the Death Eaters' curses before they first hit me.

. .

Afterwards, my memories are getting blurred. I know that they wanted me to tell them about Bode, and the thing we guard in the Ministry. They attempted Legilimency, too, but my brain was completely shut.

Then they started torturing me. With my own wand.

The Cruciatus hurt like a bitch. The worst part is that the pain doesn't even come from the curse itself, but from your own muscles and joints as they get twisted into completely unnatural angles. It gets worse and worse as your muscles pull tense, and your tendons break.

The curse had me twitching, jerking my head and screaming like crazy… You know, I felt like I_ would_, in fact, go crazy any minute. It was unbearable. Then suddenly, there was a huge CRACK, and the pain stopped – and we all stared at the broken chunk of wood in Dolohov's hand. I think my wand had some issues with torturing me.

I cannot really describe how I felt… I just stared at my broken wand, and I suddenly hated Death Eaters even more, if that was still possible.

And then, my Portkey went off.

. .

Next thing I remember is lying flat on my stomach _you-know-where_, in the first floor living room, my eyelids feeling suddenly very heavy. Two shadows came over me, then a third one, shouting; and I felt a pair of familiar hands turning me over, checking my pulse, touching the sides of my face.

"_Siri,"_ I said faintly. My voice was rough from the screaming, and somehow unnaturally low. _"Darlington. They came. Siri. Siri..."_ I couldn't stop saying that stupid nickname, as if that would help me explain what he needed to do.

I know that he was talking to me, probably asking things, but my brain wasn't working. I knew I would pass out in any minute, so I gathered all my willpower to form words like, _"Darlington. Death Eaters."_ I pursed my lips. _"Panties,"_ I said, desperately. _"Take off… my… panties."_

Faces and voices blurred above me. _"Siri," _I said vigorously. _"My panties. Darlington. Three minutes. Take them off… for fuck's… sake…"_

There were further voices and a bit of shouting, more incredulous than angry.

"_Don't… be… a git…"_ I pressed. _"My panties... Portkey…"_

And then, I passed out.

. .

Yeah, I know it's weird, but _think about it. _It was the perfect plan.

I've never heard about Death Eaters removing anyone's panties. It's just not their thing.

* * *

**28 January 1996**

(Account cont'd)

…so I made a Portkey out of my knickers, and Sirius must have finally removed them, because I didn't get knocked back home. You know, the basic idea of a Portkey is that it's constantly loaded with magic, and it swings perpetually from point A to point B. I have done Portkeys before that worked one-way only, or just once in each direction; but that takes preparation and, more importantly, _focus._ Not something I'd experiment with on the run. So my Portkey turned out a limbo one.

(The Ministry highly prohibits the uncontrolled preparation of Portkeys, by the way. Not that Dumbledore gave a shit when he taught me).

It goes without saying that once Sirius got his hands on my panties (ahem), he used them to get back to Darlington – with a likewise enraged Remus and a very reluctant Dung –, and they wiped my entire estate clean of all Death Eater presence, later joined by half the Order.

I can see that with my mind's eye… Dumbledore, Kingsley and all the other Immaculately Important Wizards, standing in a narrow circle around my favourite black knickers (with lace, mind you). I don't know if it makes me strangely proud, or if it makes me wanna kill myself.

. .

When I first woke up after the whole thing, a blurred pink-blueish patch was sitting on my bedside – which, after a few blinks, materialised as Dora wearing a bright turquoise cardigan. I swear she's the only person in the entire universe who would wear a _cardigan_ with a pair of Martens.

I told her so. She was so relieved to see me wake that she didn't even catch the critique, I guess. She hugged me instead and kissed the top of my head (in the way I absolutely hate it) and she said that I was _completely mental, _like that was supposed to be a new also told me about Remus and Sirius and their spontaneous raid in Darlington, armed with my black laced knickers.

And _then_, of course, one of THOSE conversations ensued. I'll give you a Sample.

Dora: _"Remus was really worried about you, you know."_

Me (indifferently): _"Uh-huh."_

Her: _"Yeah. He hardly left your bedside. I wasn't here when you arrived, but I came to Darlington and I can tell you that it was a major disaster. He and Sirius were so livid… you can't even imagine... It was scary. Sirius burned down half the park… took us a whole day to restore everything…"_

Me (resignedly): _"Uh-huh."_

Her: _"And even then, they wouldn't leave your bedside for a second. Like two guarding dogs, or something."_

Me (lips twitching): _"Uh-huh?"_

Her: _"Yeah. I bet they haven't slept in two days."_

Me: _"…Sirius, too?"_

Her (sharply): _"Hullo…! I'm trying to be jealous here!"_

Me: _"Yeah, but did he? Sleep, I mean."_

Her: _"I don't know. Ask him."_

Me: _"I guess we're not exactly at speaking terms right now."_

Her (smirking): _"Yeah, and neither of you stopped being miserable about it, so I guess you have the perfect opportunity to ease your heartache."_

Me (icily): _"The only heartache I have is because of the Cruciatus."_

Her (suddenly serious): _"Is it true, then…? They did it to you?"_

Me: _"Yeah."_

Her: _"It's a chance you've thought about the Portkey… honestly, I don't know if I would have figured that out…"_

Me: _"You would have just Disapparated like a normal person."_

Her: _"Not everyone can Disapparate, you know. It's very advanced magic."_

I said nothing, and she didn't have the nerve to start convincing me. We both know, that even Dung can Apparate and Disapparate as he pleases.

It appears that I'm the Order's one and only evolutional failure.

. .

Next time I woke up, I did my best to pretend I _didn't _because I heard McGonagall's voice over me, and the prospect of talking about my knickers with McGonagall was not an uplifting one.

Then I heard Dumbledore's voice from merely a few inches away. He said I was getting better.

"_We spoke this morning,"_ said Dora from the other side of the room. _"She was okay enough to be sassy with me."_

"_It is truly a miracle,"_ said McGonagall.

"_Strange, though,"_ said Dora. _"She's taking it very hard. I mean… the Cruciatus is terribly painful, but her Portkey went off soon enough. It's been almost two days… she should be getting out of bed by now."_

"_No way,"_ said Sirius's voice from Closer Than I Would Have Liked. _"Three more days of rest. At the very least."_

"_They wanted to paralyse her,"_ added Remus's voice quietly. (Honest to God, I was starting to feel in spotlight). _"It's not that they were giving her a taste of the Cruciatus – they had been doing it non-stop. Without a pause. With her own wand. Why do you think Sirius and I worked ourselves up so much?"_

"_A pity they were gone,"_ Sirius growled. _"I wouldn't have bothered with Stunning curses." _He touched my forehead lightly, with the back of his hand, then he cupped my cheek in his palm and it was suddenly very difficult to pretend I was asleep. _"Less fever,"_ he said, more softly, _"but still too bloody much. I wonder…"_ His voice trailed off.

I really hate it when people do that. C'mon, Siri, you wonder – _what?_ If I'm deadly ill? If I have more sexy laced panties like that? If I'm going to sit up _right now _and snog the living soul out of you?

Actually, I almost did that. I had missed him more than I thought I would… I wished I could somehow stop time and just stay in that comfy bed forever, sufficiently drugged; and Sirius would keep touching my cheek for bloody eternity.

Yeah. This is especially the kind of feeling I've been trying to avoid.

Anyway, the situation was getting far too cheesy for my taste, so I said the first random stupid thing that came to my mind. It's only that what had been a full concise phrase in my head came out of my mouth only as something like _"M'garden."_

"_Huh?"_ Said Sirius's voice.

"_I think she said something,"_ said Remus excitedly.

"_C'mon, princess!"_ Sirius murmured. _"Talk to me…"_

I opened my eyes and looked at him as disparagingly as I could. _"Dora tells me that you guys… fucked up… my garden."_

I saw them both – they were leaning above me and stared at each other incredulously as I spoke.

"_Oh,"_ said Sirius with sudden mirth. _"S'ppose we did."_

"_Not a tulip bulb remaineth intact,"_ said Remus in a dramatic whisper. _"But never despair! We'll get you new ones."_

I really enjoyed the next few minutes – everyone gathered around my bed and they asked me if I was okay, and if I needed anything. At that point, we were not talking about what the Death Eater attack meant or that there could be others to come; everyone was just happy that I was getting better. They _genuinely_ cared. Hell, even _Fawkes_ came to my bedside. He took seat on my nightstand and watched me with those unblinking golden eyes of his.

And then – then came the thing that I usually call _'Dumbledore ex machina'_. You never know when it comes and what it does, but one thing is for sure: it fucks shit up.

. .

See, everyone was preparing to leave since talking had tired me and stuff. My head was pounding again (I swear, this Cruciatus aftermath thing is like a real bad hangover that won't go away for days).

I was looking forward to getting some more sleep. Fawkes stayed on the nightstand, though, and Dumbledore didn't leave, either. He sat on the edge of my bed and said, all quietly,

"_I will take five more minutes of your time, if I may. There is something we should talk about."_ He tilted his head. _"Sirius, if you could stay with us…"_

The room emptied around us, and Sirius brought a chair to the bed. And Dumbledore said, _"I am glad to see you awake. Are you feeling better?"_

I said that yes, of course; and Dumbledore nodded. _"Director Ragnuk expects you to get back to work next week – that way, he can find a sufficient excuse for your absence. Do you think that could be done?"_

I said that I supposed so, although I couldn't have walked across the room if he asked me to.

"_Good."_ Dumbledore looked at me over his funny glasses._ "I must say that I am very proud of the way you handled the attack. However, under the present circumstances… well, I am afraid that Darlington is no longer safe for you, Lucy. With your permission in hindsight, I drew a few protective enchantments around the estate, but that might not be enough against a next attack, if there is indeed to be another one. We do not know what exactly our enemies want from you, and we cannot step on the offensive until we find out."_

"_I'll have to stay here, then, I suppose,"_ I said lamely. _"I mean… if you're okay with it," _I added, glancing sheepishly at Sirius.

"_I insist,"_ he said in a low voice.

Dumbledore smiled benignly at us. _"That is not an option. I have thought everything through; and might I mention that this was one of the momentous occasions when Alastor, Kingsley and myself all agreed… You shall have to return to your property in any case, if you are to keep your position as one of the Ministry's insiders. You are being watched by all sides, Lucy."_

My brain was slowly processing this information. _"But – your enchantments will protect me in Darlington, all right?"_

"_They might,"_ Dumbledore clicked his tongue. _"But I could not bear to lose you over lack of caution. I believe that the only viable solution would be to have someone live with you there. Someone who can protect you – if need be."_

Sirius was quicker to understand. I could not even object…

"_Me,"_ he said. He frowned slightly, then he made a tight, curt nod. _"All right. I can do that. Am I not supposed to be locked up here, though…?"_

"_I believe that necessity overrules caution in this case," _said Dumbledore smoothly. _"I have told you many times that I had no intention of locking you up. I was only trying to protect your life, Sirius. Your soul, more specifically."_ He closed his eyes for a moment. _"I understand that this might be difficult for you both… given that you were not on the best terms in the past few weeks…"_

"_It's nothing,"_ said Sirius.

I swallowed. _"You… you would do this for me?"_

"_Of course I would,"_ said Sirius, as if explaining the alphabet to a three year-old_. "The only way Antonin fucking Dolohov will get you is over my dead body."_

I told him that I preferred to roll on without dead bodies involved, and Dumbledore approved. Then Sirius asked him about some "plan B" they had apparently made up while I was still on Dreamless Sleep; but Dumbledore wouldn't tell me anything about it. Trust me, I tried.

. .

Sirius stayed with me after Dumbledore left. He was still sitting on the same chair next to my bed, and he was watching me. I was watching him, too.

The memory of our last row stretched between us like some wire cord. It cut. It _hurt_. Then finally, I forced an _"I'm sorry"_ out of myself, and I promised that I would never hit him again. To which he said,

"_Hit me if you have to, I don't mind… just don't give me the silent treatment ever again. When you disappear for weeks, I mean. I can't… I can't go after you, you know. If I were to wait for you in front of Gringotts with a bouquet of roses at the end of your day, I'd get lynched."_ He gave a thunderous sigh and ran his fingers through his hair._ "Actually, one afternoon I got so pissed I almost did it."_

I stared at him in utter disbelief._ "Did – did you? I thought…"_

"_You thought – what? That I'd hold a grudge over a slap? Do you have any idea how many women had slapped me before?"_ His expression was the strangest mixture of an apologetic grin and a pained grimace.

"_I just – it was that shit about you causing me more pain than pleasure,"_ I bit my lip. I suddenly felt stupid. _"I – I thought you had… that you had given up on me."_

"_In three minutes?!"_ Now THAT got him vexed. _"You thought I would just – who do you think I am, Lucy?!"_

I was almost in tears. You wouldn't understand. Sirius is _so scary_ when you get on his nerve like that. I couldn't even meet his eyes… but suddenly, by some miracle, he calmed himself, and he raised my chin.

"_Okay,"_ he said slowly, softly. _"Okay, look. I tell you what. Let's take - let's take the pragmatic approach. Just… Merlin's balls, just THINK, woman! Everyone outside the Order thinks I'm a Death Eater and a mass murderer, and that it would serve me right to have my soul sucked out through my mouth. I'm locked up in my mother's old house where even the bricks and the dust-balls hate me. All this despite the fact that I'm an Auror, that fighting the bad guys is my fucking JOB, and I can't lift a finger because Dumbledore won't let me… And you think I would give up on you?! You're the only thing that makes my existence bearable. And Harry. And maybe whiskey."_

"_Uh-huh,"_ I said, demonstrating the full range of my empathy skills.

Sirius gave a short, dry laugh. _"Trust me, princess, I'm not letting you go anytime soon. It's like – like vital instinct." _His face was very close. _"And then… if that's not enough for you to believe… there's still the other side of me. The slightly more noble, human me. I hope there's something left of the guy, anyway. And he would… I don't think he could bear if anything happened to you. Because that person, he…"_ He bit his lip. _"He cares about you. A lot. It doesn't matter what he says… what names he calls you… Merlin's bloody… you know that I never mean it…."_

All right, so let's cut it.

I'd love to say that I remained stern an unapologetic, but it might be a bit more noble to admit that I melted into his arms like a scoop of ice cream and I don't regret a _second_ of it.

…yeah, yeah, I know. It's not the first time, nor the second, nor the third. We'll try again, though. And you know, I'm starting to feel like… likemaybe we really SHOULD keep trying, after all. I mean, this happened almost a week ago now, and look at us – no clouds on the horizon. Nothing of our usual "Oberon vs Titania fits", as Remus calls them.

Maybe this time, we'll get it right.

.

So yeah. I'm alive… but there's one thing that continues to bother me.

Snape KNEW.

The oily-haired bastard knew _perfectly _what would happen and he didn't tell me. Did he tell anyone else? Well, not Sirius, that's for sure, but did he tell _Dumbledore…?_

It did not look like he did. But if he didn't – if he's working for the other side, why would he bother to save me? Is he a double agent? Darn it, did Dumbledore _know _that I was going to be Crucioed…? Because if he did, that's not fucking okay. I mean, risking my life _is,_ I guess, since I've signed up for this.

But not knowing beforehand that I'm gonna have to risk my life is another thing entirely.

Who could I ask, though…? I already realized that growing up doesn't mean that people would finally tell you what the heck is going on in this world.


	10. Hawthorn and Willow

**4** **February 1996**

Passed my first weekend in Darlington with Sirius. No drama or anything – this far, we're the coolest flatmates you've ever seen. And guess what – we found the rest of the Thestral colony, too. They went a bit wild over the years, but it seems that the Corbitts had paid someone to look after them. Especially Morpheus. I'm pretty sure he has been tamed like a regular mount.

. .

I'm having one hell of a lucky shot, you know. Surviving Death Eater attacks, getting locked up with the guy I fancy... I mean, come on. We live in a _castle_. We have our own forest and lake and everything you can imagine.

Sirius seems better off with every day he spends away from _you-know-where_. I swear, this morning he made me tea and he _smiled_ at me. And we've never really managed to stay nice with each other for _an entire week_, either, so I can scratch that off my bucket list.

Not that I have a bucket list, mind you. It would get lost or burned in a week.

* * *

**5 February 1996**

I wonder if he likes sleeping with me, too.

He often wakes up at night, dresses & all, and walks out to light a cig. He used to do that _you-know-where_, too, and I always hated it. I mean, when you sleep with someone – as in: _literally_ sleeping – you do it for the comfort, eh?

Back at _you-know-where_, he never came back once he left – I think he went to see Buckbeak in the attic or something, and I always stayed alone in that huge bed, ogling his seventies-posters on the walls. (It only just occurs to me now that almost all girls were blonde and almost all bikes were Harley Davidsons. Hmm. Someone has a _type_).

But what I really wanted to say is that he does it a lot less now. Waking at night, I mean. And when he _does,_ he stays in bed with me. Pulls me in his lap. Reads books. I swear, half the library lies in stacks next to our bed now.

Why did he stop leaving? I'm glad he did, but WHY?

* * *

**8 February 1996**

Off to Ollivander's tomorrow. Wand repair.

My stomach, if you've been wondering, is tied in a knot of angst. My wand doesn't look very reparable… Either way, I'd welcome a change. I've been using Dumbledore's old wand these days. Normally, Sirius has it – I think his was broken when they threw him in jail. Not gonna ask.

Anyway, I'm not really comfortable with this wand. I had to share it with Sirius on our Transylvania mission as well, when mine was stolen, and I'm pretty sure it remembers all the stupid shit we've done with it…

. .

Another thing I should tell you about is the family ghoul – at least that's how we call it. Remember the strange presence I've told you about earlier? The reason I woke in time and noticed the incoming Death Eaters? Broken vase in my room, and stuff…?

Well, that spooky-thing hasn't ceased. It got worse, in fact. _A lot worse. _Books are falling from shelves, plates are breaking, and Sirius almost got knocked over by a shield the other day. One of the medieval Corbitts must have been a knight.

We've spent an entire night hunting for the "family ghoul", but we found nothing. I think it's invisible. Sirius's guess was a poltergeist and mine a Demiguise, but poltergeists are visible and Demiguises don't break plates.

* * *

**9 February 1996**

Merlin. This effing day.

First, there was the afternoon meeting with Fudge. I hate those – I mean, we could meet at the cantina like normal people do, but _no,_ it has to be Fudge's fancy office. The first few times I thought he was trying to get me under the desk, but nope. He just fancies himself an emperor, or something. He maintains his _image_. Oh, yes. That's _very _important for Fudge.

Anyway, I'm jolting in the Ministry elevator and suddenly my Dad gets in. It was just the two of us – the Minister has a separate floor and hardly anyone ever goes there on Friday afternoons, so the situation was _extremely_ awkward, you understand.

The last time I saw my Dad (in the very same ministerial quarters), he unknowingly helped me fake a Veritaserum-questioning. Things escalated a bit, and Sirius had to put the Imperius on him, and then we wiped his memories and got away with the Floo… to Dumbledore's house.

Erm… yeah. Three words: _The Transylvania Mission_.

…but even if you don't count that one, we're not exactly on speaking terms with Dad. Ever since I was sixteen. Depending on who you ask, I was either thrown out or I ran away from home, you get the idea. It was weird to have him ask about my well-being. He knew that I was missing from work and stuff.

Hah. My Auror dad is spying on me. Just the thing I needed right now…

. .

…and then came today's _'Dumbledore ex machina'._ He was waiting for me outside Gringotts after work and said that he would be coming to Ollivander's with me, because he had "business" there. To be honest, I was happy to say okay – since the Death Eaters came knocking, I've become a bit paranoid, but I figured that even You-Know-Who would leave me alone if he caught me walking around with Dumbledore.

. .

Ollivander's shop was dark and dusty as always, and Ollivander himself looked exactly the same as he did in '82, when I got my first wand. Wow… _fourteen years ago_. I'm such an old hag.

Anyway, there's something you should know about my first wand: it was technically _unfinished_ when it chose me. Ollivander had crafted it out of a wood and core that usually shouldn't be matched (alder and unicorn hair), and the wand became sort of _moody_ on the working table. After having tried a shitton of wands that wouldn't have me, I snatched it from the workroom. It served me for fourteen years.

You might have already figured why the past tense… it's _irreparable,_ and what is even worse, its core had burned out.

Ollivander could immediately tell that the wand was broken by the use of an Unforgivable, which is pretty impressive if you ask me. And then he looked at Dumbledore above the counter, and he was like, _"Is this connected to the news we have been discussing?"_ And Dumbledore was like, _"Quite," _and I once again had a feeling that people were holding mute conferences over my head.

"_So… my wand will never work again?"_ I asked, suddenly quite blue. _"Caput?"_

"_I am afraid so,"_ said Mr Ollivander. _"We will find you a suitable alternative, though."_

And so the waving and murmuring began. I tried out thirty, I repeat, THIRTY wands, and none of them were right. I was on the verge of giving back my Hogwarts diploma or something, but Dumbledore just stood there looking nothing short of amused, and Mr Ollivander himself seemed positively _thrilled_. He declared that regular wand cores were no match for me, and that it was time for us to try something "more intriguing", which led us to the back of the shop. I tried two more wands (apple with a Kelpie hair core; oak with a White River Monster spine core – results of side experiments, as I understand), but in vain. Mr Ollivander said that I needed some "very flexible, or even soft" wood (I wonder how he knows shit like that…) and that the core was the key to it all. Then suddenly, his eyes widened, and he went into unintelligible genius-mode. (_"Oh, but yes, of course! I know what you need, but where could it be… where could it be…")_

The wand in question waited patiently on top of a remote shelf, under three other boxes; but eventually, he found it, dusted it off, and handed it over. It was longer than most wands I've tried; and strangely rectangular, ran tightly over by runes and other symbols I did not recognize. Its wood was light, so light that it seemed white, as if made of ivory or bone. I didn't even need to touch it to know that it was a match.

"_Willow,"_ said Mr Ollivander. _"Fourteen inches. Very flexible. Core of Thestral hair."_

Dumbledore glanced up. _"I'm sorry, did you say Thestral hair?"_

"_I've never heard about a wand like that,"_ I said reverently.

"_I am not surprised,"_ Mr Ollivander sighed. _"Back in the day, most warlock's wands had it – they believed that with a Thestral hair core in their wands, they would be able to cheat death. Naturally, they never succeeded... As of now, Gregorovitch is the only wandmaker in Europe who works with Thestral hair, and only in a few select cases."_

"_But then this wand…"_ I bit my lip.

"_It was one of my experiments – one I ran with Gregorovitch himself, for that matter."_ Mr Ollivander looked at me sharply. _"We worked with two hairs coming from the same Thestral, and we chose our own wand woods. I picked willow, fond as I have ever been of opposites. Darkness and light… life and death…"_

"_And what did Gregorovitch choose?" _Asked Dumbledore softly. But Mr Ollivander only laughed.

"_Oh, he went for hawthorn. Imagine that. Hawthorn and Thestral hair… that wand is a lethal weapon. Extremely powerful. Uncontrollable at times, I expect."_ His smile suddenly vanished. _"It was a warlock's wand, and it chose a true warlock – one from the wrong side, I should say."_

He never said _who_. What a drama queen.

. .

After the wand ordeal, we had a pretty unsatisfying chat with Dumbledore at Fortescue's – and when I say _unsatisfying, _I mean that for every word he told me, he left ten others unsaid. Trust me, when you're good at Legilimency, you tend to notice that kind of thing. And I've been thinking about this ever since the Death Eaters broke into my house… the thing is, Dumbledore has _secrets_. A shitton of them. And sometimes, I wonder about the nature and the _extent_ of those secrets.

When I walked into Ollivander's shop with him today, I was absolutely certain that I'd be strong (and calm) enough to confront him afterwards: to ask him if he had _known_. If he had just sat back, and let me get Crucioed by Dolohov and his pals. Call me stupid if you like, but deep down, I feel like he _had_… and he did nothing. If not for Snape and his fixation on Portkeys, I'd be dead or worse.

But… and here comes the "but", the "however", or anything else you might call it. Dumbledore is, truthfully, not the easiest man to confront. It's not that he shies away from confrontation – quite the contrary, in fact –, it's just that there is something essentially soothing and benevolent about his presence. It's like – _poof,_ here be Albus Dumbledore, the Man Who Will Solve All Your Problems If You Only Let Him. What people tend to forget, though, is that Dumbledore is often the very _source_ of the problems he later swears to solve, or at least _logically,_ you can tell yourself that he had sourced them.

On the other hand, though… take me as an example. Dumbledore has never done me any harm. He had helped me plenty of times, and he didn't expect me to return the favour or something. I didn't join the Order because he asked me to – I joined because of Remus and Dung at first, then it turned out that Dora is here, too, and now _I have Sirius_ and that's approximately where my logical life choices end.

Ultimately, I think I'm just being paranoid. Dumbledore wouldn't put my life at stake like that, especially without me knowing. Would he…?

. .

Anyway, the thing –

Our unsatisfying conversation at Fortescue's was mainly about Harry Potter, of all people. Dumbledore told me that after the Christmas incident, You-Know-Who discovered a strange mental connection between the boy and himself, which was – mostly – responsible for Harry's visions and terrible headaches. Dumbledore is worried that You-Know-Who might start using this, showing Harry things that are not true – for which reason Harry must learn Occlumency. I assumed (naturally) that he wanted me to help, but quite the contrary: Dumbledore strictly FORBADE me to interfere. And when I asked him _why,_ he just closed his eyes, suddenly looking like a tired old man, and said that I had to trust him.

Blindly.

I felt the thorn of suspicion between my ribs, but I drank my tea like a good girl and nodded my agreement. So we carried on with the easier part of our conversation – reporting about Fudge and deciding what's next.

All Fortescue could probably see were an old professor and his ex-student, discussing this year's Defense NEWT program. Especially when he brought out Dumbledore's third sherbet lemon cake.

* * *

**12 February 1996**

UPDATE: We've resumed the duelling sessions with Sirius, and I'm showing some progress. It's much easier to hex him with this wand.

UPDATE/2: Family Ghoul is driving us nuts. This time we were, uh, getting cosy on the sofa, and it threw a fucking LUSTRE at us. It almost KNOCKED US OVER, for Merlin's sake! Sirius says it had a screw loose, but I know it was that bastard. Or the house itself. Who knows? Maybe the mighty Corbitt Estate decided that we were blood traitors and now it wants us out. You never know with these old mansions.

I told Sirius about my suspicions, but he only laughed. He says we should rename the place Incestie St Pureblood. Maybe that will satisfy Family Ghoul.

* * *

**15 February 1996**

Dear Diary…

If you were a living person, I think this is the point where you would call _bullshit_ and never believe a single thing I say ever again. But… we have solved the mystery of Family Ghoul.

It's not as bad as you think, though. It's a lot worse.

. .

Our next fairy tale starts… yesterday. February 14. You know what day that is, right? Oh, yeah. Saint Valentine's – or as I call it, The Day of Superficial Sweetness.

The thing with Valentine's Day is that you get certain _expectations, _though, even if you hate it.

So there I was, late from work, trying not to lash out at Sirius who would mutter indistinctly about _"fucking Goblins"_ and _"five more minutes, princess"_. It's hard enough to get up without being lured back to bed… Anyway, he didn't even seem to realise what century we were in, let alone that it was Valentine's Day.

I was still pretty vexed, though. You understand. And as the day went on, I grew increasingly _more vexed_. See, if Sexy Accountant Guy from Floor 2 can think of sending me a card, why can't Sirius bloody Black do it? He wouldn't even need a card, for Merlin's sake. He'd just need to _say it_. Maybe bring me breakfast to bed. And a little massage would do. Just the thing I deserve…

I grew so strained that when Bill and his girlfriend said hello when I came out of the elevator, I told them to fuck off. Then I had lunch with Dora, who just went on and on about how Remus _"sends her signs" _and_ "she's getting there" _and _"it's just that his walls are real high"; _and I just kept staring at my plate and saying _"uh-huh"_ at all appropriate places.

. .

I finished at work super early, but I resisted the temptation of sauntering off with some random dude to get revenge on Sirius, and stopped by _you-know-where _to feed Buckbeak. He acted out quite a bit, throwing his head about and stuff. I guess he was missing his master. And as I was standing there in my fancy Gringotts robes, all blue about an idiot who forgot Valentine's Day, I suddenly felt that if I didn't do something reckless and stupid RIGHT THEN AND THERE, I would lose it. So I opened the window – huge two-winged thing – I Vanished the chain from Buckbeak's neck and I climbed up to his back (tweed robe, high heels and everything), and I was like, _come on buddy, we're off! You're getting a new home!_

_. ._

Riding a Hippogriff, in theory, is awesome.

Riding a Hippogriff from early afternoon to late evening, in about zero degrees and crazy-ass wind is… well. It certainly has an aspect of romantism. Unless you're doing it yourself. Alone. Without having any idea about how long you've been doing it, or how much longer it is going to take.

My sudden need to do something reckless was soon forgotten over the fact that every inch of my body was freezing. I ended up conjuring a winter coat… now imagine tweed-robed me in a _puffy_ _winter coat,_ sticking to a Hippogriff's back in the deepening February night. Then, you may start the slow clap.

By the time we reached Darlington, it was nearly midnight. Buck was pulling me in all directions, the moon was high up and my butt froze into one tweed-robed block of ice. You can't imagine how relieved I was to land in that fancy park and drag Buck inside. I just couldn't leave him out there, you understand. He's a domestic pet now. And I must admit that having a Hippogriff curled up in your living room is absolute _class_. Apocalypse has come for moths and rats… but let's not jump forward so much.

. .

Sirius was waiting for me right in front of the door. He was wearing a winter coat, too, and I could tell from a glimpse that he was in what Remus calls his Lord Byron Mood. For the sake of dramatic effect, he even crossed his arms and gave me the coldest death stare you can imagine. It occurred to me that I was sort of late, and that he might have thought I'd been murdered on my way home or something; and I was almost starting to feel remorse, but then he lashed out at me like crazy, asking me where I've been and telling me I was _irresponsible_ and stuff and I didn't quite feel like telling him he was right. So we had one of our rows, you know.

Finally, I just walked away from the whole thing – he was getting scary, and I was getting nasty – and as I turned to climb the stairs, the Valentine cards from my colleagues fell out of my bag. So Sirius asked me (all pale and furious) who was I getting _heart-shaped pink cards_ from. I wish you heard the way he said _heart-shaped pink cards_…! That absolute, furious _loathing._ Honestly, now that I think of it, it was funny… But then, I was having a fit (you understand), so I just lashed out at him again, saying _"Well – those are Valentine's Day cards! From people who cared!" _And I smacked the _heart-shaped pink cards_ right against his chest. I wanted to continue my way upstairs, but he grabbed my arm and held onto it, and I couldn't move. I suddenly felt like hexing him, but I knew it wouldn't work – he was too quick… too strong…

"_Don't tell me that you've gone absolute nuts over a card,"_ he said. He'd calmed down. I don't know how, but he'd calmed down. _"Please don't."_

Me: _"I haven't. There you go. So can I leave now? Continue going absolute nuts in peace?"_

Him: _"No. I want you to tell me what's wrong."_

Me: _"It's complicated."_

Him: _"I'm smart."_

Me: _"No, I mean, I have no idea what's wrong."_

Him_: "Then make something up. It usually works."_

Me: _"…well, I just like doing stupid shit from time to time. Thinking I might die if I fall from somewhere or put one foot wrong or something."_

Him: _"Because you never do?"_

Me: _"Because that's who I am!" _I suddenly realised how sharp my voice was – and that this conversation was turning far too deep. _"Sorry… sorry. I'm not used to this."_

Him: _"Not used to what?"_

Me: _"Any of this. Going to work… keeping hours… having schedules… owning a house… having a purpose… It just doesn't make any sense. When Dumbledore asked me to work for him, he promised I would get rich, and now I bloody am… but I lost the only thing I had back then. My freedom. I used to do whatever the fuck I pleased… whenever the fuck I pleased… without Death Eaters hunting for me, or even anyone caring to ask where I was… not that I don't like that last one, mind you…"_

I swallowed the end of my sentence, utterly mortified, but he held my face between his hands, in a way that made me weak and wobbly. He was smiling.

"_Thankfully, I'm an absolute treasure, and I forgive you,"_ he said. _"I even made you dinner." _And he led me into the dining hall. You won't believe me but he _actually_ cooked dinner and made the table and there were even candles and _napkins_. He didn't forget about the fucking napkins. I mean, this is _Sirius_ we're talking about.

And I was like _"So you remembered …";_ and he was like, _"I hardly even know what year it is. But I guess I can still treat my princess right every now and then, eh…?" _And I said, _"Every now and then" _smugly, but a lot less smugly than planned.

You know, if Sirius's plan was just trying to get laid all along, he did a damn good job of it.

. .

So… Family Ghoul. Hear me out.

A quite pleasant dinner, two bottles of wine and a somewhat _eventful_ bath later we were tucked up in bed; Sirius staring blankly at a page in _Transfiguration Today_ and me huddled close to his chest, stealing a good part of the blankets. The wine had been pretty old, so my head was swaying blissfully. At first, it didn't even seem weird that the long-haired, barbed head of a ghost suddenly popped out of the wall and stared disparagingly at me. I stared back at it, acknowledged its existence, then lowered my eyes and went back to my silent examination of Sirius's skin. Every time you look, you find new details in his tattoos…

And then, suddenly, my eyes snapped wide open. The ghost was still there. Not just the head, but the rest of the body, too. He looked pretty much like Nearly Headless Nick, only he wasn't nearly headless. He was still staring at me, I was still staring at him, Sirius was still reading _Transfiguration Today_. I was thinking about something to say. Like, _Good evening, Mr Ghost_. Or: _Who are you?_ Or: _Pleased to make your acquaintance – I'm Lucy_… But I guess you're starting to know me now, so you won't be quite so surprised that what I finally said was:

"_You threw the chandelier, didn't you?"_

"_Beg your pardon, m'lady, I did not throw it," _said the ghost with decorum. _"It was basic maintenance. If I knew that you were, ahem, getting intimate at the very place, I would have certainly refrained from basic maintenance for the time being. That said, it would considerably facilitate my job if m'lord and m'lady stopped getting intimate in just any corner."_

I suffered one of the most furious blushes of my entire lifetime. Did we have audience _everywhere,_ then…? In bed? In the bathroom? In the living room? On the kitchen table? In the duelling hall's corridor? In the library? Down the… ugh. Okay, so, if anyone ever reads this: please just forget about this ENTIRE PARAGRAPH. And now back to us.

…Sirius seemed to be handling random visitors a lot better than I. He glanced up, folded his newspaper and nudged me quite cheekily with his elbow _("Told you it had a screw loose"),_ then nodded respectfully at the ghost. He said _"Good evening, sir,"_ as if it was the most natural thing in the world, then took a sip from his wine glass. _"Did the Corbitts make this?"_ He said conversationally. _"Truly exceptional."_

"_The Corbitts? No,"_ The ghost laughed. _"My noble and most respectable family did not have time for things like wine. Not for the making, in any case." _He frowned. _"But you Celts have always done the same thing, of course,"_ he said heavily. _"Drank other people's wine and stole their women."_

"_Us Celts?"_ Sirius stared at him. _"You think I'm a Celt…?" _He turned to me, suddenly smug and enthusiastic. _"He thinks I'm a Celt!"_

"_You cannot fool me," _the ghost quipped. _"You are a warlock, like Celts. You wear body paint, like Celts. You're boastful and quick to anger, just like Celts. And you wear the name of a star, like most Celts back in my day. I had no idea you were still around._"

I wasn't particularly surprised that Sirius squared his shoulders proudly and told the ghost how each symbol in his "body paint" stood for a different man he'd slain in battle – and when I cracked up laughing, he had the nerve to look genuinely offended.

"_Never seen any tattoos before, have you?"_ I told the ghost, still grinning. _"Nor did any Corbitt, I suppose."_ I bit my lip. _"You're one of them, aren't you? I mean – were."_

"_Sir Benedict Emory Corbitt, at your service," _said the ghost. _"And you must be my little niece…"_ He counted on his fingers. _"Hmm. At least forty times removed. Things get blurry around Lady Allura the Second, though. Good heavens, that woman… although not even she had the habit to get intimate with her guards…"_

"_Sirius is not my guard!"_ I said, turning pink.

"_I assure you, Sir Benedict, that my intentions with your niece are entirely honest and clear,"_ said Sirius smoothly.

"_Well, clear enough, that much is sure,"_ said the ghost. _"It is not my business, in any case. I just thought I would make your acquaintance before I am forced to save your lives again… not that you care all that much, of course… see, even Rowan forgot to mention that I exist. It gets tedious, occasionally. Every other century. But ignore me, ignore me. You are surely busy."_ With that, he pulled a silvery-transparent handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose loudly.

"_To save our lives?"_ Sirius's voice was sharp. _"How so?"_

And that was enough emphasis for me to suddenly _understand_.

"_Hey,"_ I said cautiously. _"The vase… when the Death Eaters came… it was you! You woke me up! If it wasn't for you, I would probably be locked up in You-Know-Who's basement!"_ I did my best to smile at the ghost, although I was still terribly embarrassed. _"Thank you, Sir Benedict!"_

"_Hmm, you're welcome, welcome of course," _said the ghost, suddenly self-conscious. _"Of course, it is not that – not that I am hungry for glory or anything…"_

"_Sir Benedict, if you truly saved her, then I am gravely indebted to you,"_ said Sirius, suddenly sounding quite like the finest sort of Celtic warlock. _"I would stand and bow to you, but I am rather… scarcely clad at the moment, you understand."_

"_Indeed, indeed,"_ said Sir Benedict, rather stoically. _"And of what House you might be, warlock?"_

"_The House of Black,"_ he said cautiously – and it appeared that caution was in order, since the ghost's eyes narrowed. _"Blacks," _he spat._ "Nothing but trouble."_

"_Fear not, sir,"_ said Sirius, openly amused, _"I have never exactly lived up to my dear family's expectations."_

"_How so?" _Sir Benedict asked.

To which he said, with distinct pride:

"_Well – let's just say I have always been a bit too red-and-gold for them!"_

"_Red and gold!"_ The ghost exclaimed. _"Glory and pride! A fine, fine man you are, Sir Sirius of the House of Black!"_

"_Oh, so you were one, too," _said Sirius, a bit confused. _"Rare thing, considering…"_

"_Oh, do not tell me about it," _said the ghost, still smiling from ear to ear. He sat on the edge of our bed, sending waves of cold at my feet. _"People are forgetting, kings are gone, but our wars are still fought. Do they follow the white rose, now? Those Death Eaters…?"_

"_The white rose?" _Sirius frowned. _"Wait… are we talking about… oh wow." _He looked at Sir Benedict with sudden reverence. _"You lived through the Wars of the Roses!"_

"_Well," _said the ghost, _"I have not quite lived through them, but let us say I did my part."_

And Sirius was like, _"How awesome is that?!", _and I shit you not, they sat there until literal MORNING, talking about warfare and horses and Yorks and Lancasters and those ridiculous buckled shoes people wore in Sir Benedict's time.

. .

So… yeah. Seems like we have a new housemate. I mean – he's been there all the time, but you understand. Anyway, Sirius gets on with him like a house on fire.

Well… sadly, I can no longer _get intimate_ with my Celtic warrior on the kitchen table at will. On the other hand, though, I think it must be real nice for Sir Benedict to finally have someone to talk to about his Lancaster things. And he's been living – I mean, you know, existing – here for centuries. I can't just tell him to sod off, can I?

By the way, we rooted in him the firm belief that _You-Know-Who_ is a manic Yorkist.

* * *

**22 February 1996** _(Here be notes!)_

Some quality advice on how to handle teaching Merton Graves, alias Little Shit this weekend:

**REMUS**

\- Be generous and kind, but also confident and unapologetic.

\- Last time, you didn't draw him _'The Line'_. Do it now.

\- You said you had a different personality when you teach. There are people who need that, but not you. Be yourself. Or _almost_ yourself.

\- DADA is not strictly and solely about DADA. Teach the kids stuff you're good at. Like Charms. Or spell combinations – something they can't get elsewhere. That way, they'll respect you.

\- Be very firm with the boy but recognise progress when you see it.

\- Don't call him names in your head. One day, you'll slip. Imagine calling him Little Shit in front of an entire board of examiners…

\- Keep a flask on you. Just in case.

**SIRIUS**

\- You're the teacher, so you're the boss. If you don't like classrooms, get the hell out of the castle. Do your lessons in the middle of the bloody Forbidden Forest. See how cocky 'Little Shit' gets out there…

\- Defensive Magic is crap.

\- No textbooks.

\- If the boy annoys you, reprimand him. If he keeps annoying you, give him some admirable piece of detention. And if he _still_ keeps annoying you, lay him one of your Legendary Slaps. Dumbledore won't fire you anyway. Imagine the satisfaction you'd get.

\- Basically, do whatever the hell you want.

\- And keep a flask on you. I second that.

**DORA**

\- Be sure to demonstrate every unpleasant hex on that boy.

\- Do not, under any circumstances, let him intimidate you. Like, damn it, you're my best friend! THE Lucy Dawlish! U.S. immigrant and shit!

\- Lots of detentions with Umbridge…

\- As I understand, yours are not obligatory lessons. To hell with Little Shit if he annoys you! Just throw him out of the classroom, I guess.

**MAD-EYE**

\- Be vigilant! We don't know whose side the boy might be on. This could be another Death Eater plot to corner you.

\- Do not waste your time on defensive magic. 'Defensive' is a complementary part of 'offensive'. One is pointless without the other.

\- If necessary, scare the boy. A bit. I hear that Barty Crouch Jr turned Draco Malfoy a ferret while he was impersonating me, and I must admit that it is something that I would have probably done if I was me. Hmm.

\- Don't listen to Sirius if you can avoid it.

**DUNG**

\- I wouldn't give a shite about the whole business if I were you. I mean, you still get paid, right?

\- Offer him cigs, though. Everyone loves a good cig.

**GNARLAK**

\- A mind that doesn't want to learn is a hopeless one.

\- Keep doing what you do. Although if things don't get any better, I would consider telling his father. Name's Titus Graves. You might learn a few interesting things from him… about the people who followed you. Just a hint.

**SNAPE**

Do whatever you want, Dawlish, it's not my business.

* * *

_**A/N:** Sir Benedict and the Corbitts belong to Hirfael._

_I know that updates are getting scarce these days ~ there's much to figure out..._


	11. Canis Familiaris

_**A/N:** I kept this chapter in my drawers for a long time, but I think it might be one of my best. I wish you a Happy Easter with this - make it as happy as it can get! As for me - I've come to terms with the fact that my family was better off without me for a while (me living in a big city and all), but not being able to sleep with my dog at my feet feels like a particularly cruel karmic punishment._

_Keep your jobs and your loved ones safe!_

* * *

_**February-something  
Friday  
Afternoon sun-time**_

_The main objective of this Account is to emphasize how profoundly UNCOOL it is to leave your diary dead open on the kitchen table, without the slightest warning that there is a Bat Bogey Hex on it. You know, I don't look exactly dashing these days, but the tiny leathery wings flapping up and about my face have somewhat worsened my outward condition!_

_All I wanted to do was check. I swear to God. It's not like I was going to set this book on fire or anything! I just saw my name, right there on the top of that page…_

_It feels as though you were talking about me behind my back._

_But I've got this now. The opportunity of a lifetime. The diary of Lucy Dawlish, left right here, at my questionable mercy._

_._

_What the hell could you even be writing about, anyway? "Life?" Anyone who thinks life is interesting clearly hasn't lived long enough. In your case, though, I have trouble guessing exactly how not-long-enough that is._

_I must be awful as far as "boyfriends" go, but I've never even asked how old you were. Not sure I'd want to know. See, I barely even know how old I am. Had to count it on my fingers._

_The problem with diaries, you see, is that they're complete crap. They make things RESURFACE, and then those things get all messed up – so that you sometimes remember your birthday, or a rainy morning long gone, or a horrible joke your best mate told you twenty years ago, and you get all bizarre over it for no fucking reason. A textbook example: last year, in Transylvania, you asked me how I liked my chocolate and I had absolutely no clue. I hadn't had chocolate in fourteen years and you were staring at me, all confused; so I had to assume that "Hot Chocolate Preference" was a kind of personal data that people were supposed to know about themselves. That's how I had fallen over the brink of an oncoming personality crisis. All your fault._

_This probably doesn't make sense, but I'm not writing this to make sense either way. I'm not even sure why I'm writing, other than to annoy you._

_._

_**Later.**_

_This diary defends itself quite effectively against reading, so I'll have to guess – but I don't think that you could be writing very much about yourself, princess. That would probably bore you to death, although you're one of the least boring people I know – and that includes the times when you decide to become remote and shut overnight, as if you'd had an overdose of human interaction._

_You usually just tell me about other people, or your job, or Horntails and Ridgebacks, or the best way to balance gin with tonic (on which we don't happen to agree). Not yourself. Never yourself. Not that I talk too much about myself, either. Guess we're better off that way..._

_._

_You know what? I bet that the reason you won't let anyone read this notebook-thing is that it's just as mushy as it can get. You like to pretend that you're Not Like Other Women, and in a sense, you aren't; but you were still a woman through and through when I last checked, and this Bat Bogey Hex is just as vicious as one on a teary-girly diary would probably require._

_Now don't get me wrong, princess – everyone deserves a place to flash their dramatic flair from time to time. No problem with that. But now, with these ugly-ass bat wings flapping all over my face, I can't help but hate you just a little… And I won't let you get away with the fact that you forgot your diary. This weekend, I am going to be the one to write it._

_That might teach you not to EVER leave it within my sight again._

_._

_How does this writing thing work, though? Do you introduce yourself? Do you invent pages and pages of fake shit to escape the fact that you're bored? Do you write lengthy fiction of Things That Would Have Happened If You Hadn't Asked That Girl Out, or Things That Would Have Happened If You Found Out Sooner That One Of Your Closest Friends Was an Asshat, or maybe – _

_Nevermind._

_._

_**Some wine later**_

_Let's roll with introductions._

_Hi, I'm Sirius, from a family that ritually beheads elderly House-Elves and hangs them on corridor walls like trophies. I don't seem to have inherited my ancestors' talent in interior design, but I manage – I am, among other things, an expert of what the French call "foutre la merde partout", which is to be duly admired (and not, under any circumstance, to be taken literally)._

_I can also turn into a dog, which is very useful when I need to get away from the sheer horror of human sentiment; yet somewhat unnerving when faced with the experience of strangers trying to bump my nose for fun._

_I am also:_

_\- Auror On Hold (and VERY mopey about it)._

_\- Godfather to Harry Potter_

_\- Hottest dead-man-walking in your area. Even Dementors want a snog._

_\- Pretty fucking insufferable and a melodramatic drat, to quote Lucy (who has clearly no clue about how alliterative epithets work)._

_\- Quite hungry at the moment, so you might excuse me if I break the status quo._

_._

_Princess, you keep having a go at me for getting snarky from time to time – now tell me, what EXACTLY should I be oh-so-happy about…? I should be out there hunting for Dark Wizards, which was my bloody JOB before Wormtail fucked me over. I should spy for the Order. I should look after you, incognito, just in case you're still being hunted… but I'm just sitting here instead. And you keep telling me that I have the power to protect you. LIAR._

_For the first instance of his miserable existence, Snape was right. The only thing I'm doing is sitting on my arse doing nothing, tucked safely away from trouble. I've been hiding from the entire world (authorities, Dementors and Death Eaters y compris) for TWO FUCKING YEARS, and Dumbledore – the very same man who had asked for my help to see you back from the vampire's lair – now talks to me like I'm some ten-year-old whose bedtime is approaching. Wouldn't that piss you off if you were me? Just a little?_

_Not a single Death Eater set foot in this house since I'm here, no matter how much I was looking forward to it. Where are those fuckers when you need them…?_

_I know you're afraid of them, but I know just as well that you like being rescued. It turns you on._

* * *

_**The next day (nineteen-ninety something and still February, I guess)**_

_RIGHT NOW: everything is nice and dandy, and so peaceful I can barely stomach it. And don't tell me that it's all about recompense and care. I'm not stupid – I know EXACTLY what cutting my hair and talking me into shaving is all about; and I also know why you keep feeding me like a teenager on a growing spree._

_I am, in fact, undergoing systematic domestication. You think that if you keep cropping weeds for long enough, they might be chastened into some semblance of a hedge. What happens to the thorns, though? Will you sprinkle me with sugary potions so I might grow flowers instead…? Let me tell you right now, I fucking won't._

_I wonder, though, if plants feel it too – that strange, undermining sensation of dependence and servitude; of being slave to something, then slowly growing to like it. Because being cared about creates the illusion of being loved… But can you ever be really loved if you're just an irregular fucking weed?_

_Don't tell me you have never thought about these things – you're guilty of it, too. Of curling up like a hedgehog, and tossing your quills in my eyes. I can't stand you when you're like that, and you can't stand me, either; and everything gets so fucking horrible for a while that I wouldn't be surprised if we tried to murder each other overnight. I always stay, though, and you end up sharing my bed like you should (laced panties and insulting jokes and some damn fine liquor included); and the next day we talk over tea and biscuits as if you've never screamed through the entire night and I wasn't still bubbling with want and hatred; and we're so civil about everything that it makes me want to claw your pretty eyes out of their sockets._

_I think you might be one of the reasons why I'm losing my mind these days. Whatever happened to our agreement of Not Getting Involved…? I was doing a terrible job from Day One, of course, but now you're mucking things up even worse._

_Who are we even kidding…? I'm a nightmare, but I have decided to take care of you, and now I can't stop. And you, you're all salt and vinegar, but also the cosiest prison I've ever been in._

_Merlin's bloody bollocks, how much I wish you were here right now, so you'd call me a dramatic fool and laugh at me till we'd both lay panting on the floor._

* * *

_**Sun-eve, countdown to your Coming Home**_

_Ah, the hilarity._

_If you were to take a wild guess, princess mine, what would you say – how did Sirius Black, Auror Retired and Hottest Dead-Man-Walking in the Area spend his day in Incestie St Pureblood…?_

_The simple explanation would be, alas, that I was doing nothing. This Explanation, however, jumps through some minor detail which you might find engaging. Because as it happens, Sirius Black, A.R., etc, has actually spent his Sunday afternoon giving relationship advice._

_(I will watch your pretty face VERY closely when you'll be reading this, and at the smallest inkling of laughter, I'll bite)._

_So how exactly did this abomination happen…?_

_Well, what happened at first was exactly NOTHING. I don't really know how to describe this "nothing", mind you – haven't read much Beckett these days. I was just… lying around uselessly. Asking Sir Benedict about Lancaster heraldry. Sitting out in the pale-ish cold sun with Buck, reading Dostoyevsky and some crazy-ass potion book I found under the kitchen counter. Then I got cold and came in, and had tea, and felt awfully domesticated._

_The worst thing about being locked up here is that I don't even hate it. I'm hardly even angry about it anymore – there's only the warmth of our home, some weird cosy feeling and the anticipation that you might come back a bit sooner than you normally would. Frightfully pathetic. Is that what I have been reduced to? I sit here and wait for my treat like a fucking cocker spaniel._

_Merlin, the IRONY, the irony of it all. I could laugh, and scream, and set this entire fancy castle on Fiendfyre before I jump right into it. But then I'd never see you home again._

_._

_Look at me, princess. 37-to-be, no job, no future, nightmares and mood changes, bitterness and paranoia, mild alcoholism and danger, danger, danger. And I look like hell. Is that what life had in store for you? A shadow of a man, whose two best mates are a werewolf and a ghost…?_

_At least I'm rich, though. I don't even know if you know. I always forget to tell you, but it might be an ace next time I find myself crawling back after one of our vicious sprees. "Hey sweetie, it's not abuse if the guy's rich and there's roses!"_

_(Uncle Alph, are you proud of me now as you sip your gin in the seventh fucking hell? And you Prongs – )_

_._

_Diary-writing is shit. How do you deal with this every day? I feel cut open like a bad apple. I want to tear my pages out and burn them, but I just tried and your hex kicked off again..._

_Why should you make everything so bloody difficult?_

_._

_Well. It seems that I am once again helpless against the cruelty of the world – implying, of course, that my princess is my entire world._

_I might as well tell you about my day._

_._

_So – about my newly opened (and hereby perpetually CLOSED) Relationship Advice Agency: technically, it was an accident, albeit you would probably deem it an amusing one. As for what happened…_

_Picture me just – lazing about. Minding my own business. Still trying to remove those ugly wing-things from my face (Sir Benedict directed me to the appropriate part of the Corbitt library, once he had finished laughing his ass off)._

…_and as soon as your man is settled down in that ugly green armchair with a stack of books, WHOOSH, picture the fireplace coming to life._

_I must admit that I was suddenly terrified of the prospect of having to fight Voldemort in a ridiculous checkered nightshirt, which has been clearly made for someone fatter than me. I'd rather go in the nude and shrieking like a madman. Woo-hoo!_

_But let's go back to your personalized daydreaming: picture me, Outwardly Unfazed, as I stay right where I am – wand drawn, arms crossed as arrogantly and menacingly as you can get – as I say in a rough, Artfully Deep Voice,_

"_Who's there?"_

_(STAGE DIRECTION: The afternoon sun is burning the sorry shit out of my eyes through the window. If you stand behind my back, you can only see my silhouette and not the bat-wings all over my face – which, sensing my agitation, are flapping distinctively faster now. As long as you're fixed on my butt, I look awesome)._

_And who answers –_

_So disappointing, damn it. Okay. So who answered was actually my old mate Remus, and my priorities immediately changed from trying to look Terribly Dangerous and Wrathful to trying not to turn around._

_What follows is a brief Situation Comedy, in which Remus repeatedly addresses me as "Siri?" as if doubting I am me (might be my haircut actually paying off), and me continuing to Gaze Stubbornly Into the Distance, remembering Moody's lectures about raising your wand without drawing attention to the fact that you're raising it. The original purpose of this practice is to distract enemies, but you can occasionally use it to keep your dignity, too – except, most of the time it doesn't work. See, I did manage to raise my wand, but that didn't mean that I could counter the terrible curse you've unleashed upon my poor troubled soul._

_Remus's questions continued to hit me like Muggle bullets, and I came to the unpleasant realization that I couldn't spend the rest of the day facing the window – so I called out on our Mighty Old Friendship, making him promise that if I did turn around, he wouldn't, under ANY circumstances, react in ANY visible way. He met my threats of an Unbreakable Wow with a resigned sigh, and the (false) assumption that I could surprise him no more. Then I turned, of course, and I observed what I believe to be the mightiest effort any man has ever made to keep his face blank._

_Needless to say, it wasn't enough._

_We'll skip the part when Remus accused me – quite deservedly – of having read your diary, as well as my chagrin at admitting that I wasn't even successful in my coup d'état. We'll also skip the part when he actually managed to counter your buggery (he'd always been the Charms guy in our little gang, after all). And we'll also skip the part when we got royally pissed at afternoon teatime, together, like good old times. Make no mistake, I knew that something was totally off with him from the moment he arrived, but I doubted I could offer any means of solace, feeling quite mopey myself (wasn't even sure if I wanted to). I also knew that he was here for you and not for me – maybe he'd even forgot I lived here and he had suddenly no clue what he could do with me other than open a bottle or two._

_You might have already noticed how fucking terrible Remus can get when he jumps on the guilt ride – all quiet, all distant, all Let-Me-Hate-Myself-In-Silence, all bloody IGNORANT about whatever other people might think or want. He still feels terrible about me having rotten in Azkaban and stuff, and he won't stop pestering himself with it. Result: he's super awkward around me, like I-Wanna-Hex-The-Guy awkward, and you just can't snap him out of it. I really hope something's going to happen with us, and soon, because it's been two years and I still don't see ourselves getting back on the "old friends" track. And I miss my old friend._

_These things are so bloody easy to write down, aren't they? Well, it isn't easy to tell stuff into Remus's face. It is very thick. Bet he puts on Self-Loathing Masks every morning the exact same way you do your face hydration thing on Saturdays._

_The good thing about alcohol, though, is that is makes you a talker (and it makes Remus a smoker, too), so that's how we found ourselves outside the house, looking at the rosebushes like some Victorian asshats, and that's how Remus finally opened up about his current misery, too. I hereby desecrate my Vow of Silence by this written record, because I'm COMPLETELY sure that once sober, he won't talk to you about it, although he really feels like he should:_

_So apparently, he and our Dora have a – a thing going on. Of course, said Thing has been killed in the cradle by Remus's lifelong aspiration to make himself as unhappy as he can possibly get; knowing Dora, though, I think we might anticipate certain Repercussions. I don't do gossip and I most certainly won't tell you what happened and how and why but we've had an admirable piece of conversation that I should definitely record:_

_REMUS – "Don't you sometimes get the feeling that you're – you're getting into situations that you don't deserve?"_

_ME – "Uh, all the time?"_

_REMUS – "I mean – because they're too good?"_

_ME – "Look around, mate. I'm living it."_

_REMUS (looking slightly confused) – "So, the thing is – I was hoping to talk to Lucy."_

_ME (theatrically) – "And here I was, naively thinking you'd visit me…"_

_REMUS – "No, I mean – about something."_

_ME – "Say no more. Won't talk to you, then. Save your breath."_

_(Cut from here are a few lines of theatrics, in which I manage to look offended enough for Mr Spleen to demean himself to the loathsome practice of honesty)._

_REMUS – "It's about Dora."_

_ME – "Yeah?"_

_REMUS – "I think he likes me."_

_ME – "Yeah?"_

_REMUS – "Yeah, she does."_

_ME – "Good for you, mate."_

_REMUS – "But she shouldn't."_

_ME – "They do that all the time, eh? Stupid women. See, Lucy shouldn't like me, either, but she does. Terrible checkmate I'm facing."_

_REMUS – "Well..."_

_ME – "Bet you've never seen her out of those pretty robes or you wouldn't wonder why I won't chivalrously turn her down."_

_REMUS (offended) – "It's not about robes."_

_ME – "Course not."_

_REMUS – "It's – stop pretending you don't get it."_

_ME – "Be gentle with me, O sir, jail has addled my brains."_

_REMUS – "Stop it! You know what I am."_

_ME – "We've been through this in Fifth Year, sunshine. Being a werewolf doesn't mean you can't get a good shag."_

_REMUS – "And hasn't it occurred to you that I might not be wanting a shag?"_

_ME – "You never know what's good, eh?"_

_REMUS – "I can't do that to her. Won't."_

_ME – "You're thicker than the grease in Snape's hair, Moons. I don't know what to do with you."_

_He almost laughed at that. I swear, his lips DID curl slightly upwards. But nope – I'm not enough to make him laugh these days. With another hour of running around in increasingly wide rhetorical circles, I have concluded the following:_

_ONE (fact): Dora likes Remus, like, Capital Letter Likes, kind of the same way we like each other_

_TWO (deduction): Remus likes Dora back with the same intensity (if not more)_

_THREE (observation): Remus is currently on the peak of a particularly vicious self-loathing spree_

_FOUR (information): He has received a new mission from Dumbledore he just won't talk to me about, but by the looks of it, it's something quite dangerous_

_FIVE (conclusion): Remus might be in the mood to jump face into said mission and selfishly kick the bucket (although he probably considers it heroically selfless)._

_WHICH MEANS: You need to talk to him. Not me. You. I'm too old, too fucked up, and too much of an alcoholic for this. I'm counting on you, princess._

_._

_Remus decided to wait for you here, which is a small win on my part, but I still don't think he'll tell you what really troubles him. Things don't look so dark anymore, though. We've sobered almost completely, you should be proud. It weighs on him, though – hasn't even occurred to him that I keep scribbling into your diary._

_You'll be mad at me, I know. I've invaded your privacy – well, not really, but I definitely tried. You keep invading mine all the time, though, asking stupid things like how I feel. How I fucking feel, I swear. You don't wanna know._

_Do what you will, princess, just please remember that I want to be with you, all the fucking time, and I'm doing my best._


	12. AN IMPORTANT NOTICE

**~ this chapter is going to contain an AUTHOR'S NOTE ~**

Dear Readers,

My updates are getting scarce, and things have gotten to a point where I feel like I need to talk about it.

The thing is - 'The Cat Among the Pigeons' has ORIGINALLY started off as part of a series... but I don't think that anyone has ever actually read it that way. As time went on and I progressed in the stories I have written about Lucy Dawlish, I have increasingly felt that the plot was not working out, that the quality of my writing wasn't nearly as good as I had envisioned it to be.

So last December, I took a deep breath and started rewriting Lucy's entire story in my first language, with the hope (and the sincere intention) that one day I was going to translate it all. I am adding a lot of detail (and an additional story of about 60k words the Hungarian version of which is, by the way, almost ready now.)

I had really hoped that all this was going to work out while I simultaneously updated 'The Cat Among the Pigeons', but I can see now that it will not. So many small details are changing that once I will have gotten here, CAtP will be needing revision. I am afraid that I must pause it right now. :(

I don't want to let you down, and I know how many stories are paused or abandoned. I am also aware that with this note, I reduce my chances of you guys ever giving a chance to any of my stories again. But I am an honest person, and right now, I feel like I should take a break, so I could post everything on a schedule, without readers (if there will be any) having to wait months for new updates.

If you are still interested by Lucy Dawlish and her story, you can find me here anytime. Fav'ers and followers of this story will all be notified via PM if/when I restart the series - perhaps from a new profile, I don't really know yet.

I wish you all the best, and thank you so much for your support!

Best,

Laerthel

P.S.: for the above-mentioned reasons, 'Gadding with Ghouls' - the prelude to this series - has been deleted. The changes to the storyline are so important, that it is no longer accurate AT ALL.


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